


Aberration

by Wander (devilsduplicity)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Instability, Psychopath in Love, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/Wander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie flips between two personalities: The cold killer and the manic lover. Waylon has one goal: Get home with all his limbs intact. But the journey is longer than anticipated, and neither of them are prepared for the attachments they create.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pow Wow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlindear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlindear/gifts).



> Fudging up the timeline a bit to make Eddie a little younger, so please bear with me on that.
> 
> The last part of this chapter was heavily inspired by a request on the [Outlast Kink Meme](http://outlastkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/692.html?thread=15540#cmt15540).

It happened at the worst of times.

One minute, Eddie was bright and lucid, could see the grime scale the walls, could smell dead flesh like a fresh coat of paint, could think, _This is a golden opportunity. I can leave_. The next, his conscious mind was out cold, and there was nothing but a high-contrast haze pressing him to slice, to dice.

He woke to the world with bloody hands and a tailored monstrosity of warped flesh, scrunched his nose, and racked it up as another point for reputation. The body was split down the middle, rough stitches with thick thread roughly binding two halves of the same stomach. A dead-eyed head peered out from inside the man’s gut.

Thirty hours since the downfall of the doctors, and Eddie had himself a nice new nickname. _The Groom_. He didn’t remember the motivation for the murders, only the sensation of death gunking up his fingernails. 

He finished the most recent job, hands steady, moving without his volition. When he gained control, he wiped his palms on the front of his vest. What was that, attempt forty? Seemed the closer he got to the exit, the more he blacked out, the more bodies wound up strung like chinese lanterns in the gymnasium.

He wanted to leave. Twenty years shacked up in various asylums across the country, and the last thing Eddie wanted was to mosey around another one, not when freedom was so close it rubbed against him like a sixth sense. But when the Engine pressed behind his eyelids and took sweet, heady control ...

Commotion upstairs. Heavy feet treading down into his lair, and Eddie rolled his eyes. Another sheep guided to the slaughter. Another waste of time, a carrot waved in front of his face to keep him occupied, trapped. It was best to ignore the situation entirely, really, but if anything more than a victim wandered into his halls, he’d have a threat on his hands. The Doctor, The Cook, The Soldier. He couldn’t allow that. Not when he was so _close_.

Eddie sauntered down a narrow hall, pressed his fingertips against the wall, closed his eyes and could imagine the inside of the long room. The sewing machines lined up on rows of tables. The swaths of fabric limp and useless fluttering in a broken-window breeze. Moonlight like spotlights. How many sheep had he caught in there?

Footsteps. Labored breath. The jangle of a door handle alerted Eddie, and he slid easily in that direction, scarred face pressed to the window. 

Eyes widened on the other side of the glass, and Eddie’s lips twitched.

“ _You,_ ” he snarled, voice low. He strode to the only clear entrance. The Engine hadn’t taken hold, but his eyes glazed with anger, flashes of another time he was pressed against the glass, naked, _pleading_ , and no one, _no one_ sympathetic enough to stop the torture.

Especially not the little computer-tech _oh so willing_ to press all the right buttons that sent Eddie spiraling into the mouth of hell.

“Oh, _darling_ ,” he said, every syllable a threat, the heels of his dress shoes (borrowed from a body, a doctor’s formal attire) clicking. “No need to hide. We’ve met before, don’t you remember?” Steps slow, measured. He peered below a table, saw nothing.

“No? Let me refresh your memory. I was … “ _Desperate. Dying. Plundered and raped, inside and out._ “... resting. Leisurely. In a chair full of nasty little tubes. And you were pushing buttons on your computer. Playing games, I think?”

He raked his hand across a table, fingernails like white static.

If anyone deserved to die, it was that man. For his inaction. For his hand in the machinery that tore Gluskin’s psyche down.

“Eddie?” The voice was rough, probably from misuse, and terribly quiet. It struck straight through Eddie’s spine, made his head snap in its direction.

Long strides, and Eddie was there, saw the smaller man, blonde hair practically blue in the moonlight. His hands, long-fingered and delicate, held out in front of him like he was trying to calm a rabid animal. He crouched slightly, backing up until his heels touched the baseboard of the far wall, and then his wide eyes darted left and right, panicked, seeking an escape.

“Eddie … Gluskin?” he tried again, swallowed between words.

“You _do_ remember,” Eddie purred, his tongue all venom. He advanced, let his wider frame box in his prey. Most of his kills were merely coincidental, a reaction to Mount Massive’s peculiar brand of treatment, a fuzzy picture while his body drove on autopilot. This one would be pleasant, a persistent itch finally scratched.

He reached for the knife in his pocket, flashed a bright smile when the tech-man noticed it.

“Oh, this? Just a token of my gratitude.” Eddie grinned, pulled his arm back—

“I tried to stop them!” the man shouted, hands forward and eyes closed.

—hesitated. Knife poised to draw blood. A press rubbing behind his eyelids.

“I tried to—but then—” He waved his hands around, indicating a wide, overarching _this_.

Eddie’s arm didn’t move, was curled like a snake ready to strike. He stared, ran figures in his head. Tried to stop it? How? Was it for Eddie—for that moment, one man naked and helpless against the glass, the other wide-eyed, fingers on the edge of a key? The man obviously wasn’t terribly successful. Not when Eddie was caged by his own psychoses, incapable of breaking free from his blackouts long enough to escape Mount Massive’s unparalleled hell.

“I’m happy you’ve seen the error of your ways. _Truly_. But admitting your sins doesn’t excuse them.” Muscles tensed, ready to strike.

“I need to get out,” the other said, one eye peering half-lidded at Gluskin. “If I can leak the footage I’ve gathered … it’ll destroy them. For good.”

Ah. Eddie recalculated, tried to find the good in letting the man live. There was, on one hand, the mouth-splitting thought of getting revenge on every doctor who had spit on him, dug into him, _used_ him. To tear down the very foundation of Mount Massive—the corporation that funded them, Murkoff’s seedy little hands buried deep in the trousers of the asylum, milking its gonads for every drop of liquid gold—would be a heady way to break its spine. But, on the other hand, the man in front of him had been such an intricate, integral part of the whole system, his fingers callously typing away, Eddie’s nightmares and fears and the froth that bubbled from his open, terrified mouth, the bloodshot eyes, the hallucinations, all of that transformed into cold calculations.

Eddie rubbed one eye with the back of his free hand, knuckles dipping into the gentle crease, scraping over the scabs on his cheek. The press swelled.

He had thought, those thirty hours ago, eons of time squeezed into an overfull day, that the man poised on the end of his knife would have helped him. That those frightened blue eyes had cracked like robin’s eggs at the sight of Eddie’s suffering. And he’d screamed for that pain, wanted to draw it out, wanted, for the first time in his life, the honest sympathy of another human being, _needed_ that recognition.

It hadn’t saved him.

Eddie’s eyes blinked, shifted down, fell half-lidded. He dropped the hand at his face, slid it easily to the wall beside the other man’s head. Caged him.

But when his gaze shifted, he noticed something. A number. 2536. The patch roughly sewn across the front of an orange jumper, the thread crossed exes, like jittering smiles.

“You’re in a patient’s uniform,” Eddie said, leaned in, head low. He could feel the man's hot, sickened breath fanning across his cheek. Could feel that press behind his eyes start to roll.

“Yeah.” Frightened, airy heat crashed against Eddie’s lips. The computer tech’s face contorted into a wince, a scowl, fight and flight mixed into a heady medium that kept him anchored, afraid, angry. “Yeah,” he said again, and Eddie’s attention glued itself to his mouth.

Roll, squeeze, press. Eddie’s head was a balloon just short of bursting.

“Why?” Eddie asked.

The man poked his tongue out, ran it across his chapped lower lip. A nervous gesture, Eddie decided, and documented the motion in a file in the back of his head designated New Prey.

“I … They caught me sending a message. About what they were doing here. And they didn’t like it, said it was stupid, crazy even.”

Eddie nodded his head, dropped the knife, took a pointed step back. He could feel the world rotate, could see the haze fizzing into existence, flipping the switch from dreary to dreamlike. It started behind his eyes, then filtered down to his jaw, no taste but the sensation of sucking on something sour. It pulled his lips apart, his mouth a giant curved wound.

The man was a patient. He tried to help. His scars, his fear, his uniform were proof enough.

He deserved to live.

Eddie kicked his knife to the side, took another step back. His smile split his face, and he canted his head when he said, cheerily, “Run.”

**************

Run. _Run?_

Waylon froze, trembled with nervous energy. He was cornered, boxed in, trapped _trapped he w **as trapped**_ and trapped meant dead. But there, just under the madman’s broad shoulder, southeast of his manic smile. An opening. A chance.

He didn’t have to be told twice. Two minutes with those bruised-bloodshot eyes (practically glowing in the dark) ravishing him, and Waylon was more than ready to _run the fuck away_.

He darted, ducked under the arch of a sweeping arm, and glanced back to see Eddie turn on his heel. 

“ _Darling!_ ” This time the voice was different, hoarse and desperate, where before it had been smooth, frigid.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Waylon circled through the room once, twice, Eddie’s long strides no match for the terror that propelled Waylon forward. He darted down the long hall, eyes peeled and every thought a screaming prayer that he wouldn’t accidentally corner himself. He skittered to a halt in front of an open elevator, the platform two floors down, a ladder calling to him like a siren.

No. No, he’d mangle himself. There had to be a better way. 

A door stood ajar just to the right. Waylon wrenched it open and launched himself down the stairwell, hopping down long stretches of steps to land on the flat corners between, sweaty palms anchored on the railing for guidance. He heard the rushed _tap tap tap_ of Eddie’s pursuit.

When he rounded a corner, he was almost floored by the macabre wedding ceremony he found. No time to stop. He darted down the aisle, dead bodies in fold-up chairs, a mannequin in a wedding dress, jerked to his left, squeezed through a doorway crunched tight with a bookcase blocking most of it off.

The room was small, with no air ducts to crawl into, and the only door out barricaded by slabs of wood and strips of metal.

He turned to squeeze back out, then froze when he stared into Gluskin’s half-mangled face.

“Come on, darling. You don’t have to be afraid.” The voice was soft, soothing. It fluttered down Waylon’s spine, and when he peered through the small opening he’d slid past, between the bookshelf and the doorway, one that was far too narrow for his pursuer to wedge through, he saw the open, imploring eyes of a violent man who had convinced himself he was gentle.

“Stop playing these games,” Eddie said, words a sweet sing-song. “You don’t have to run. You don’t have to be alone anymore.” He reached through the gap, the leather of his fingerless gloves pressed into disorganized wooden shelves.

Waylon backed up against the far wall, stared through the opening at the bloody, scarred face that melted from tender to furious.

“Come here,” Eddie said, gripping one of the shelves until the skin below his fingernails turned white.

Waylon’s heartbeat throbbed. When the wall cradled his back, he slid slowly down, adrenaline roared through his ears with no place to guide him. The only other way out was through a door buried behind an array of broken wood and scattered metal. He was trapped, knees pulled up just below his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. _Trapped_.

“Come. _Here_ ,” Eddie said again, pulling on the shelf. It barely budged, packed in tight and sturdy. He reared back his other hand, curled his fingers into a fist, and hit the bookshelf over and over and over again, a snarl curling his lips. “Come here come here _come here you worthless **whore.**_ ”

He pushed himself further in, mad and mindless, one thick arm reaching for Waylon, fingertips outstretched. Waylon peered through his lashes, tried to calm his heart and choke back the swell of bile that tickled the bottom of his throat.

“Slut!” Eddie yelled, his voice a sticky bow splayed across a rusted string. Its rough edges made Waylon wince, made him push his forehead into his quivering knuckles. “Like all the other ungrateful little _sluts_. You’re not a mother—you barren womb, you insignificant—”

“Shut _up_!” Waylon yelled, chin snapped up and pointed forward. His lips peeled back into a toothy snarl. “You’re a fucking riot, you know that? And I’m _not a fucking girl_.” His words rang in distilled silence.

Eddie stared, eyes orb-like and glinting, open-mouthed. He stood still for a moment, arm jammed through the opening. He jostled the bookcase, a low rumble deep in his chest, then thrashed, teeth bared, trying to push himself in in _in_ with no progress.

“I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you,” he said, words blending together until they turned into a string of animal sounds.

Waylon unwrapped his arms, pushed himself to his feet, and strode towards that small space separating him from life and death. He stood on the other side, watched Eddie writhe, rout, placed his trembling fists on his hips, slit his pale blue eyes.

“How’s that working out for you?” he said softly, stared as Eddie redoubled his efforts to no avail. “You’re not getting through. You’re not getting through, and I’m gonna keep my man bits, and you’re gonna be _alone_.”

It felt surprisingly good to say it, to let every ounce of fear and hatred seethe on his tongue. Waylon had been running for god knew how long, adrenaline a drug that pushed every horribly scarred face, every grotesque mangled limb, every threat of dismemberment to the side. With the impromptu breather he found himself in, all those images started bubbling to the surface. He couldn’t make his goose bumps go away.

“I’m not your darling. I’m not your _anything_. I’m the guy who’s gonna get out, and you’re the guy who’s gonna rot here.”

Eddie threw his full strength into the bookshelf. It canted to the side, briefly, but he could barely squeeze his shoulder through.

“You stupid _bitch_ ,” Eddie yelled. “Slut! Why—why _why **why?**_ ”

 _Because you’re crazy,_ Waylon was going to say, but he stared at the other man, saw manic heat gather on his eyelashes, knew Eddie didn’t notice it, knew, suddenly, that Eddie didn’t notice _anything_. And that … that wasn’t his fault, was it? Eddie Gluskin was a lot of things, had a reputation long before he ever set foot in Mount Massive, before he was exposed to the Morphogenic Engine and its maddening effects. But he wasn’t at fault. Not entirely. Fucked up, yes. Crazy, definitely. But the blame for his madness rested on the haughty shoulders of Murkoff.

That’s why Waylon wanted to get out. That’s why Waylon clung to his camcorder, even when his life depended on the free and easy use of both hands. The patients were highly disturbed individuals who needed help. They didn’t deserve the torture they’d been put through. They didn’t deserve all the blame.

Anger poured out of Waylon until he was left hollow and empty. He sighed, long and low, then folded himself until he sat cross-legged in front of the opening, elbows on his knees.

“Eddie? You need to stop.”

Eddie didn’t stop. He beat his whole body against the bookcase.

“You’re gonna draw attention.” Waylon knew there were bigger things than Gluskin roaming the halls, and though Eddie’s brand of psychosis was exceptionally terrifying, he wasn’t the only alpha that sent patients scattering in fear.

Still, the manic man didn’t pause. He kept rattling about like a crowbar caught between two pipes.

“Listen, I know this isn’t easy for you, but you need to calm down.” If Waylon’s voice trembled, it was due to exhaustion, yes, _definitely_ not because he was terrified Gluskin would rip through the barrier and carve out ten new holes in his ass for the sheer pleasure of it.

Eddie’s guttural noises were dying down, but still ferocious and frantic.

“ _Eddie_. You’re hurting yourself!”

That made him pause. He jerked his head up, eyes slathering every inch of Waylon’s face with devoted attention.

“Darling,” he said, blinking softly, body completely still. “You _do_ care.”

He didn’t move, though, and Waylon had to bury his head in his hands to keep from banging it against the floor. Crazy people were so fucking _frustrating_.

“Yes, Eddie. Yeah, I care. Now will you—”

“Come here,” Eddie said again, his shoulder purpling with strain. “Come here, don’t be scared. I’ll protect you, just—”

“No,” Waylon replied, simple and cold.

“Why not?” Eddie started jerking about again, temper flaring hot in his gaze.

“Because—” Waylon stopped himself, thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. “What’s my name?”

“What?”

“My name. Do you know my name?”

“Of course, it’s—” Eddie paused, searched Waylon’s face, then skittered his attention down to the number sewn onto Waylon’s jumper. His gaze was stuck on it, like he was trying to translate the numbers into a unified word.

"It's Waylon," the computer tech said. He nearly offered his hand, then remember, _oh, right_ , probable dismemberment. “And my age? Do you know how old I am?”

Eddie’s face scrunched up in a scowl. “I honestly don’t see the relevance, darling.”

“Just … please. Bear with me. How old am I?”

If Waylon was anywhere else, he might’ve called Eddie’s expression a pout.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m twenty-eight. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight,” Eddie said, then, “but age is just a number between two consenting adults in love.”

Waylon was going to vomit. He was _sure_ of it. He swallowed down the urge, and pressed on, pleased to see that Eddie’s tone had lightened, his motions paused. Good. He was distracted.

“And what’s your favorite color?” Waylon asked.

“I … just come here. Come here, darling.”

“Eddie. I want to know what your favorite color is.” Waylon was firm. He didn’t know if his idea would work, but a little chat with a sociopath was better than being chased by one. Right?

“I don’t know. Maybe—whatever you like.” Eddie was hesitant, his eyes darting down now, lower lip pulled between his teeth.

“Eddie. Think of all the colors you’ve ever seen, and pick. Your. Favorite.”

“Green.”

“Good. I like green, too, but my favorite is orange.” Waylon wasn’t sure why he divulged that information, but he figured sharing was a good thing at that point. Established a connection. The more Eddie knew about him, the less Eddie would want to kill him. Maybe. “Did you have any pets growing up?”

“What?”

“Pets, Eddie. Like a dog or a cat. Did you have any when you were younger?”

“There were … there were three horses. And milking cows. And a herding dog, Sady. My uncle owned a farm.”

“Good,” Waylon said, closed his eyes gently, breathed slowly. His heart was starting to beat like a normal functioning human again. “What was your uncle’s name?”

“Abe—Abraham. No. No no _no no nono **no stop please stop**_.” Eddie jerked his arm out of the opening, fell back on his haunches, and grabbed his head. Fingers threaded through his thin strip of hair, and _pulled_. “No, please, I’m a good boy, I’m a _good boy_.”

Waylon stared for a second at the man now writhing on the floor, his eyes full moons crippled with confusion. A roar echoed down the hall, and he jerked his head to the right, mouth agape at the monster of a man stomping in Eddie’s direction. He’d seen him earlier, just after Blaire had demolished salvation packaged in a short-wave radio.

“ _Eddie_ ,” Waylon yelled, darting forward. “Get up!”

He knew the monster heading their way would tear Eddie to shreds. Waylon wasn’t sure why he cared, but Eddie was thirty-eight and his favorite color was green and he knew a dog named Sady, and maybe he deserved to die but Waylon was on his feet before he could think it through.

“Eddie, get up and _give me your goddamn hand_.”

Eddie was still clutching his head with one hand, but he scrambled to his feet the second he caught sight of Waylon’s outstretched fingers. Their digits threaded, and Waylon pushed all of his weight into the bookcase and pulled the madman forward. Eddie wedged his shoulder into the small opening, squeezed his broad chest through, and pushed when Waylon pulled.

Another roar, a swipe of thick fingers pulling at the neckline of Eddie’s shirt, the rip of torn fabric, and a screaming _pop_ when Eddie wedged through the opening and fell out the other side.

If Eddie dislocated his shoulder birthing himself through that tiny canal, then the monster of a man on the other side stood no chance. He hovered menacingly, rattled the bookcase in his fury, but couldn’t get through.

Waylon backed himself into a corner the second Eddie crumpled into the room. What had he done? What the _fuck_ had he just done?

“Darling,” Eddie said, _whimpered_ , his scarred face scraping against the wooden floor, one arm buried underneath his stomach, the other splayed out limp and to the side.

Okay. Okay. Waylon inched out slowly from his corner, approached Gluskin with the same care someone might approach a wounded animal. When his booted toes nearly touched Eddie’s prone form, Waylon crouched.

 _I’m not a doctor,_ he told himself when he grabbed that flopping fish of an arm and Eddie groaned. _I can’t do this,_ he thought, fingers tightening.

He pushed up and in, and Eddie, pale-faced and sweating, screamed. The arm set into place. Waylon leaned back on his heels, then settled on the ground, shaking and unblinking. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before Eddie stirred.

One suddenly-lucid blue eye peered at Waylon, and Eddie, still face-down on the floor, head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side, growled out, “I thought I told you to run.”


	2. Bluebeard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, thanks for all the kudos and comments, everyone! They really have kept me going.

When Eddie woke up, his shoulder _ached_. Well, at least he wasn’t buried elbow-deep in a corpse’s innards. That was an improvement.

He clumsily stood up, rotated his arm slowly, winced at how tender it felt.

"You're an idiot, aren't you?" he said, canting his head towards the other man in the room, his tone conversational.

The technician spluttered, scrambled to his feet, and set them apart like he was grounding himself against a typhoon.

“ _What?_ ”

Eddie raised one thin eyebrow, his chest facing the wall. One hand massaged his sore shoulder. He surveyed the area with a sour twist to his lips, eyes stuck on the debris blocking their only feasible exit.

“I told you to run, and you decided to trap yourself in a room with me,” He said, turning his attention to man's wan face. His hand dropped, head still tilted. “How much were they _paying_ you?”

“In case you didn’t notice,” the guy said, his eyes insulted slits, “I just saved your ass.”

“Yes, about that,” Eddie said, turning to him. “Why?”

“Why—I … you were gonna get killed.”

“And I was going to kill you.” Said with assurance, like death was a certainty. “So there really was no reason for you to—unless you wanted something. Needed me.” A beat. "What's your name?"

The guy scrunched up his nose, eyebrows pulled in tight and low. "I just told you."

Eddie shrugged. "Must've slipped my mind."

"It's ..." Hesitation. Eddie counted the seconds, could practically hear the rough grind of gears turning in the computer tech's brain. Weighing the pros and cons of offering a madman even a sliver of personal information.

"Waylon," he finally said, chewing on his bottom lip. He stared at Eddie for a moment, emanating the physical embodiment of perplexed, then retreated slowly until his back pressed against the wall. Cornered himself. Not the brightest bulb.

“You need me, don’t you Waylon?” Eddie continued, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, pulling the sleeves down to cover his gloves.

It made sense, didn’t it? No one was altruistic enough to offer help to an entity eager to split them open. Waylon had ulterior motives. Had to.

“A weapon, maybe? The self-firing gun you’ve no obligation to shoot? I suppose it makes sense. Parasites work well in symbiotic relationships.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Waylon said, leaning heavily against the wall.

Eddie paused, tipped his head to the side. “Then what was it?”

“I’m not—I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_ why you carelessly put your life in danger?”

“Why do _you_ care?”

“For that,” Eddie said. He waved towards the camcorder clutched tightly in Waylon’s hand. “You said you tried to stop it, yes? And anyone can guess that footage of—” Open arms, a sweeping gesture across the room. “—of _this_ would shut Murkoff down.” A smile, echoes of that manic grin. “Nothing would please me more than to see this building burn.”

Waylon stared, his form half cast in murky darkness.

“So,” Eddie kept on, his voice low and controlled. “If you’d like to do us all a favor and get out alive, you’d do best to form a better alliance.” He tapped his temple. “Got a few screws loose in this noggin.” That smile again, like being trapped in a loony bin was a pleasant cruise down the coast.

Waylon was a distraction. Eddie wasn’t sure what triggered that lump in the back of his head, but shivering incompetence certainly didn’t help. If the computer-tech stayed close, Eddie’s chances of actually escaping Mount Massive were significantly lowered.

“I didn’t do it ‘cause I thought you’d … you’d _protect_ me,” Waylon finally said. He was still pressed to the wall, but his chin jutted up in defiance. 

“Then why?” Eddie said, brows raised.

“I don’t know. It just happened.”

“People don’t just _happen_ to toss their survival instincts out the window.”

Waylon ran his tongue across his lower lip, drawing Eddie’s attention to the gesture. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again. After a long moment of racking his brain, he responded low and soft.

“I thought about Sady, okay? And green, and thirty-eight. And I couldn’t let you die. Not in front of me.”

“What did you say?” Eddie’s voice was louder, ragged.

“What?” asked Waylon, his tone rising.

“How did you—where did you hear that name?”

“What, Sady?”

There it was again. Eddie hadn’t thought about her in years, and suddenly her image was the brightest part of his memory. Her pointed ears and shaggy grey fur, dark teary eyes, the languid sweep of her tail when she nuzzled his hand.

“ _How do you know about Sady?_ ” Eddie strode forward, slammed his palm against the wall next to Waylon’s head.

Waylon was trapped again, his heartbeat racing, but he didn’t look away, only tilted his head up to stare Gluskin in the eye.

“You told me about her,” he answered calmly, swallowing back his fright.

“I didn’t.”

“You _did_. When you were on the other side of the bookcase. You said you were thirty-eight, your favorite color is green, and Sady was your uncle’s herding dog.”

Eddie was floored. He pulled his hand away before Waylon could notice his trembling arm. Took a step back.

Waylon had _communicated_ with him? He’d had a conversation with that alter-personality, had calmed him enough in his mania to play a civil game of twenty-questions? Eddie’s first instinct was to deem it impossible, but he hadn’t told _anyone_ about Sady. It wouldn’t have been in his files since his doctors had never bothered to seek such inane answers.

Waylon had spoken with him.

And Eddie had spoken back.

And no one had died.

_No one died._

The knowledge was a new variable in an unsolvable equation.

Eddie opened his mouth to say as much, when a loud bang to his left drew his attention. He spun on his heel and peered through the opening that was slashed closed with a tilted bookcase. 

"Chris?" Eddie stared into the beady eyes staring back. “ _This_ beast was following us?”

“You know him?” Waylon asked, his attention pulled to the giant looming a few feet away. Deep, rumbling breaths heaved out of the Goliath-esque man, his rat eyes scurrying between the other two. “Can he get through?”

“No, we should be—”

“Come here, little piggy,” Chris said, huge squeezed fist banging on the bookcase. Three hits, and he paused, turned, rounded the corner. Eddie watched him through the dingy glass, stiff, every hair on the nape of his neck sizzling straight up like a lightning storm. Chris stared at The Groom for a moment, then balled up his fingers and banged on the window. One hit left a spider-web crack.

“Shit,” Eddie said. He took a step back, shoulder bumping into the computer-tech. He turned around at the second impact, heard the glass crackle. “Help me with this.”

Waylon grabbed the edge of a broken board, heaved it to the side. Eddie’s fingers curled around a metal beam. It scraped loudly against the floor when he dragged it out of the way. Chris hit the glass again, both fists pounding.

“Shit shit _shit_.” It was Eddie’s new mantra, hissed out between clenched teeth. What a way to go—cleaved in two by a mad soldier’s bare hands.

“Hey.” Waylon’s voice was a panicked tenor, but Eddie detected a note of hope. “There’s a hole in the door, under—here, help me move—”

Eddie was there in a flash. He grabbed a toppled table, set his feet, and helped Waylon push it to the side. The opening was small, jagged, with splintered shards of wood jutting out like shark teeth. But it was all they had.

When the glass finally shattered, it sounded like a lake thawing. Slow at first. Then fast, faster, when chunks of ice rubbed together, ground each other down, smaller pieces colliding, sinking into chilled depths; a tinkling bell multiplying, aggregating into a cacophony.

Waylon had already weaseled himself through the hole. When Eddie followed, its teeth tore holes in the back of his shirt, and Chris’ unholy roar felt hot on his trail.

Eddie stumbled to his feet, grabbed Waylon’s arm, and pulled him left down the hall.

He didn’t have time to think about the human piñatas he’d strung up in the gymnasium. His homage to mania seemed irrelevant in lieu of the agile footsteps stomping much-too-close behind him. He could feel Waylon’s shock, though, in the other man’s bicep, the way it tightened, the way he had to tug him a little harder to keep him moving.

When Eddie reached the air duct in the far corner of the room, he practically threw Waylon into it. Grabbed his arm, hoisted him up, and allowed himself a second of surprise when a proffered hand peeked out of the opening to help him ascend. Eddie squeezed into the small space, an inch of room on either of his shoulders. He barely noticed the limp head crammed into a vent a few crawling-steps ahead. He tilted to his side to allow himself more breathing room, then collapsed, one arm jutting straight out above his head, legs drawn tight to his abdomen to ensure they wouldn’t dangle over the edge and into imminent amputation.

“What are you doing?” Waylon said, his words a tight whisper that ricocheted off thin metal walls. “We need to keep moving.”

“No,” Eddie replied, heart pounding, eyes closed. “No. It’s safe in here. We need to wait for the oaf to lose interest.”

“Well, you can stay. I’m getting out of this shithole.”

“If you wait, I’ll go with you,” Eddie said suddenly. “You’ve made it this far on your own, but I know the layout of this place. I can keep us out of trouble. And get us out of trouble if we run into it.”

He knew the offer would be enticing. Despite Eddie’s own psychoses, he knew how to handle a fight. And if what Waylon said was true—if they’d had a little chat in the midst of Eddie’s buzzing madness—then there was a good chance Waylon could talk to him again. Could keep him heading towards the exit. They could guide each other to freedom.

Symbiotic, indeed.

He could _feel_ Waylon’s distaste at the thought of waiting around. But Eddie knew his stomping grounds, knew Chris, knew they couldn’t survive another encounter like that, not without having the upper hand. And he was tired, incredibly tired, the sharp edge of his manic episode leaving him frayed.

Waylon opened his mouth to protest, but the body jammed head-first into the air duct interrupted him. It violently jerked backwards, skin peeling off in a wet _shliiick_ , until it thumped onto the ground below and Chris’ agitated grumble filtered in through the bent metal slats.

Eddie unfolded his body, inched upward until his arm was a foot away from where the dead man had been, his legs safely stretched out. He lazily opened his eyes, stared half-lidded at his unwilling company. Waylon was on his hands and knees, crouched in the adjoining duct, the fingertips of his splayed palm a measly handful of inches away from Eddie’s head.

 _Is this my salvation?_ Eddie thought. He noted Waylon’s jittery torso, the jutting collarbone, messy swath of blonde hair, speckled stubble. Groaned quietly, half at the pain in his recently-located shoulder, half at the pervasive thought that Waylon might be his only chance at escape.

Waylon held himself upright, his proximity to a mass murderer souring his mood.

“How long will that take?” he asked.

“Hm?” Eddie idly responded, his eyes drooping further and further closed.

“The guy—Chris. When do you think he’ll go away?”

“Oh. In a few hours, maybe. I’m not sure how the Engine affected him, but he’s always had a one-track mind.”

The stale air fell quiet. Eddie felt Waylon’s hesitation, and rolled his eyes up to catch the other’s tentative gaze.

“You … knew him, then?” Waylon asked, then ran his tongue over his lower lip.

Nervous gesture, Eddie remembered.

“I’ve seen him,” he corrected. “In shared spaces. He used to be more approachable.”

Waiting drove Waylon crazy. Eddie saw it in his mannerisms, his shivering back and shifty eyes. He was about to comment on it, when the other man interrupted his thoughts.

“Why—how could you _do_ that,” Waylon blurted out, his eyes pale blue disks.

“Do what?” Eddie asked, his head lazily pillowed on his outstretched arm.

“The gym. All those bodies. That was you, wasn’t it? Their … _parts_. They were mutilated. How could— _why?_ ”

The change in topic was direct, and only made Eddie want to close his eyes and take a nap. If he had the space and the energy, he would’ve shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Waylon was shivering more now, his face a bleached sheet. “You went full-out Bluebeard on those men, and you _don’t know?_ ”

Eddie closed his eyes, sighed, then peeked them open again. “You want an excuse? You want me to justify it?”

“No, I just—I want to know why.”

“I don’t _know_ why. It just happened.”

“Bodies don’t just _happen_ to cut themselves open and … and swing on a rope.”

Eddie pushed himself up, ignored the ache in his arm. He couldn’t sit upright, but he propped himself up as far as he could on his elbow until he could feel Waylon’s hot, ferocious breath fan across his face.

“Would you like to join them?” Eddie said softly, his face expressionless. He felt a deep inner delight at that tiny hitch in the back of the other man’s throat.

“Don’t threaten me,” Waylon said just as quietly, his words trembling but threaded with steel. “Don’t you _fucking_ threaten me.”

They held stares for a minute, two wills butting against each other.

Eddie broke the tension with a dark laugh.

“Alright,” he said, then lowered himself back down into a more comfortable position. “Why did _you_ do it?” he asked when he finally settled.

“What?”

“Why did you program their machines? Push all those delicate little buttons?”

Waylon’s stunned silence was incredibly satisfying.

“I didn’t—that’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Eddie closed his eyes again, curled his arm to rest his head in the crook of it. “I’d say you racked up hundreds of victims with those clever numbers of yours.”

“I didn’t _kill_ anyone!” Waylon protested, his lips a pressed line.

Eddie buried his nose against his arm.

“There are a lot worse things than death.”

**************

He could hear Chris stalking around below, sometimes in the kitchen, other times in the hall with the dead body, more often than not in the gymnasium. When he got used to the unnerving sensation that he was nothing more than a cat trapped in a tree by a hungry dog, the adrenaline that kept Waylon upright started to wane. Two hours passed, and Waylon started to feel his fatigue.

His arms burned from holding himself upright, but he didn’t have enough room to stretch out in a languid pile like _fucking Gluskin_.

Who, by the way, hadn’t said a word since his creepy totally-not-true comments.

Waylon was tempted to interrupt the serial killer’s steady breaths with a violent shove out the air duct, but bit the inside of his cheek to keep the urge at bay.

He could survive alone, maybe. But with Eddie on his side, Waylon stood a much better chance at actually leaving that godforsaken asylum. If Gluskin didn’t shank him first. Or split him open for the sheer pleasure of it.

 _Doesn’t fucking know why he slaughtered a bushel of people_ , Waylon thought, then pushed the thought away. It didn’t help to dwell on it.

His back was _killing_ him. He stared at Eddie’s prone form, undeniably envious.

“Hey,” he said after a five-minute wait.

Eddie grunted, but didn’t move.

“ _Hey_ ,” Waylon said again, then prodded the other man’s elbow with an outstretched finger.

Eddie stirred, cracked open a bleary eye.

“What?” His voice was cement in a concrete mixer—sloppy and rough.

“Let’s switch. I need to lay down.”

Eddie closed his eye again. For a full minute. Then gently shook his head. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

Waylon could’ve punched him in his dumb ugly face then and there.

“If we’re gonna be trapped up here,” he said, giving Eddie’s arm a firm shove, “then we’re taking turns.”

Eddie blinked awake again, glanced at the short stretch of an air duct Waylon occupied, then gently shook his head. “I wouldn’t fit, even if I crouched. My legs would stick out.”

“That’s—I need to lay down.”

“You would jeopardize someone’s life for a crick in your back?”

“I didn’t say—”

“That’s _awfully_ callous for someone with such incredibly clean hands.”

“ _Fine_. Move over, then. We’ll share.”

Waylon crawled forward, but paused when Eddie’s body snapped tight like a pulled string.

“There isn’t enough room,” Gluskin said, but something in his voice—

Was the bastard _scared?_ Waylon wasn’t a body language expert, and he sure as hell hadn’t studied the nuances of tone, but he wasn’t obtuse. And Eddie, well.

Eddie looked _terrified_. It was muted, of course. Hidden behind a straight mouth and agitated eyes. But it was definitely there.

“If you back up against the wall, there’s a good foot-and-a-half of space—actually. Turn around. We can lay back-to-back.” His words lost their bite. Now, Waylon just felt tired.

He found himself in an impromptu staring match with a psycho, but won the battle when he crawled another inch forward and Eddie jerked back so suddenly he banged his head against the air duct. Waylon rounded the corner in a tight ball, his knees drawn so close to his chest he nearly knocked Gluskin in the nose. When he stretched out and shimmied down to avoid the blood stain left by dead-head, he breathed a sigh of relief and—

Well, okay. It was a much tighter squeeze than he had expected. Eddie hadn’t turned around yet. Waylon felt every inch of the man’s broad chest pressed snugly against his back. He would’ve moved forward, but his nose was already touching the other side of the air shaft.

“You do realize,” Eddie said after a long moment, his hot breath fluttering the hair on the nape of Waylon’s neck, “that I can’t turn around now.”

Waylon thought about that for a moment, pictured Eddie’s shoulders and how he’d barely been able to slide into safety in the first place.

Yeah, well.

Yeah.

Shit.

“Oh. Well. That’s okay, we’ll just—”

They were spooning. Suddenly, that was the only thing Waylon could think about. They were _spooning_ , and a questionable bloodstain was sitting cheerily just south of their heads. 

“Just don’t do that whole ‘darling’ thing, okay?” Waylon settled on. He tilted his head down so he could rest his forehead on the metal wall and inch half a centimeter away from the body behind him. His efforts accomplished exactly nothing.

When Eddie chuckled, he felt that, too, bursting like a furnace against his neck.

“If I could control it, I wouldn’t be in this cesspool anymore.”

 _That_ caught Waylon’s attention.

“You can’t control it? I mean, when you … you know.”

Eddie was silent for a long time.

“I black out,” he finally said.

“Do you remember anything?” The chase, the obsessive mantra of _whore, slut, not-a-mother_ , the manic affection—surely he remembered that.

“No,” Eddie said, clipped. Waylon was pressed so close he could feel the other’s breath speed up.

“But—”

“It’s mania, Waylon. A manic episode. One long episode cultivated by the Engine and broken into parts. I don’t know when it comes or when it goes. And I don’t remember anything when it happens.”

“So you could—” Waylon hesitated. “You could snap at any moment?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Waylon realized teaming up with Eddie meant dealing with two people. The first was the cold killer currently playing big spoon to his little spoon. The second was the man who chased him through the asylum, the man who craved his affection, who strung up every body in the gymnasium.

“What am I supposed to do?” Waylon asked, his voice tapered down to a whisper. “If you—if it happens again.”

“Play along, I suppose.”

“I can’t play along with _genital mutilation_.”

If Waylon wasn’t so thoroughly glued to Eddie’s chest, he might’ve missed the little chuckle.

“Are you laughing?”

“No, of course not.”

“There is nothing funny about cutting off someone’s dick.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re laughing and it’s _creepy_.”

“Well,” Eddie said, the short vibrations in his chest coming to a slow halt. “What did you do last time?”

“I trapped myself in a room and asked you the dumbest questions in the world.” Waylon still couldn’t believe he’d survived that ordeal. Honestly, what had he hoped to accomplish? He wasn’t a psychologist, and one question he’d asked had sent Eddie flying into an incapacitated meltdown.

“Then do that again.”

“Okay,” Waylon said, voice thick. “How many boarded-off rooms can I worm myself into on this little journey to the outside world?”

Eddie paused, breaths slower. Waylon could feel the rumble in his chest when he spoke. “You figured it out last time. You’ll figure it out when it happens again.”

“But what if I don’t?” Waylon asked. If he lifted his head and peered down his body, he’d be able to see the dangling feet of Eddie’s victims through the opening of the air duct.

“Then I’ll kill you,” Eddie said.

“That’s not incentive for me to stay.”

“If you stay, I’ll keep other people from killing you. And show you the way out.”

“This is straight out of a Heller novel.”

“ _Catch-22_ was a good book.”

“They let you have books?” Waylon blinked in surprise, could feel Eddie shrug.

“I had a lot of privileges before I was transferred to Mount Massive.”

Oh. It took Waylon a moment to remember that Eddie had a reputation long before falling into Murkoff’s clutches. It only made sense that the killer had already shacked up in another asylum.

“Why were you transferred?”

It took Eddie a moment to respond. “I had something close to sanity. Murkoff promised an absolute cure.”

Was that bitterness Waylon detected? He couldn’t blame the guy. Gluskin was messed up, that had already been established. But everything he’d worked to repair had been neatly torn down by Mount Massive’s medical staff. How many years of recovery had they crushed beneath their thumbs? How much irreparable damage had they inflicted?

“I’m sorry,” Waylon said suddenly, heat flaring on his cheeks the second those words left his mouth. Jesus Christ, Gluskin practically admitted to an atom bomb being dropped on every inch of progress he’d made over the years, and all Waylon could say was _I’m sorry?_

Eddie was quiet for a long time. Waylon could hear the other man’s heartbeat, felt it thump against the back of his head in steady beats.

“I think Chris is gone,” Eddie finally said.

Waylon held his breath, strained to hear the slightest sound. The constant tread of their stalker had ceased. He couldn’t recall the last time he heard it.

“Okay. Now what?”

“Now,” Eddie said, shimmying a bit so he could slide further down the air shaft. “We need to get a key. It’s in the—it’s where we were before. On the mannequin.”

Waylon could feel every inch of Eddie’s body when Gluskin pushed himself to the edge of their sanctuary. When he heard the soft _thunk_ of heavy shoes hitting the ground below, Waylon became hyper-aware of how chilly he felt now that Gluskin had packed up his body heat and taken it away.

He slid down after the other man, his steps much lighter, almost undetectable when he landed in a shallow crouch. They stepped carefully around wires, and Waylon clamped his mouth shut around an incredible desire to vomit. He resisted the urge to count the bodies hanging above him. Kept looking ahead, eyes glued to Eddie’s back. 

When they reached the—it was a chapel. There was no other way for Waylon to describe it. Eddie stepped out in front of the spotlight, and Waylon jolted at the menacing shadow he cast on the wall.

“Here,” Eddie said quietly, guiding Waylon down the aisle. He reached forward and snatched a glittering key from the clutches of a lonesome mannequin. “The exit is—”

The whir of a chainsaw interrupted him, and Waylon turned to see a shirtless bag of bones staring at him, wild-eyed and hungry.

 _Fucking hell_.


	3. Patchwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for how long it took to update this! Spring semester rushed in, and I barely got a chance to even think about this story until after finals. In recompense, here's the longest chapter I've written so far. Thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments and immense amount of support! They really mean the world to me. I've also made a few edits to previous chapters, which are detailed in the end notes.
> 
> **TW: Strong discriminatory language used near the end of this chapter.**
> 
> Also, I'm curious. What sorts of things would you guys like to see in this story? I have ideas for where I'd like to take it, but I'm always open to suggestions/requests!

“Frank,” Eddie said, spreading his arms in a welcome gesture and stepping out in front of Waylon. “You’re a little far from the kitchen, aren’t you?” He lowered his arms until they settled comfortably at his sides.

Old-Man-Cannibal, or Frank (did Eddie know every psychopath in that asylum?), wouldn’t tear his eyes away from the relative sliver of a man eclipsed by Gluskin’s shoulder.

“Meat,” he said, whirring his chainsaw again. “MY meat.”

Waylon had no idea what Eddie was planning, but his guardian sociopath didn’t seem fazed by the intimidating display of machinery Frank waved around. How fair was that? Waylon knew he’d be plagued with nightmares about those gaping ribs and gnashing teeth until the day he died, but Gluskin acted like he was five minutes away from inviting Frank over for a cup of tea.

“Oh, this shish-kebab?” Eddie asked, head canted back a bit. “He stumbled into my territory.” Slight pause. “He’s mine now.”

Frank took a step forward. Eddie held his ground.

“ _My meat_ ,” the cannibal said, adjusting his buzzsaw so it stuck out in front of him like a pointed threat.

“Eddie,” Waylon whispered, hesitant. “We need to get out of here.”

Eddie reached back and splayed his hand gently across Waylon’s chest—not a push, but a firm reassurance. A lump the size of Nevada lodged itself in the computer-tech’s throat, and whether fear or gratitude, he still couldn’t swallow around it.

“You want to dance, Frank?” Eddie asked.

Frank charged, and Eddie used Waylon’s chest as a springboard to launch himself forward. Waylon stumbled back two steps, lifted his camera, and hit record. It was instinct, so sue him.

The chainsaw whirred, a terrible grind of metal that shot up Waylon's spine. He could still feel heat singe his fingertips, still ached from the harsh pound of brick against the fleshy skin of his clenched fist. And for a moment—an incredibly small moment, a pulse so low he hardly felt it—Waylon was glad he had Gluskin's hulking body on his side.

Eddie danced around The Cook, all power and grace, his motions fluid, cat-like. He darted to the left, arms out and chest pulled in, narrowly avoiding the broad sweep of Frank's saw. He moved in a half-circle, drawing the attacker's attention, standing as a monolith between Waylon and the overly-friendly neighborhood cannibal.

Waylon almost didn't see it when it happened. The floodlight at the end of the hall backlit both bodies in front of him, turning them into living shadows, their silhouettes sharp but features indistinct. The saw keened a high tone, and a spray of blood slapped against the nearest fold-up chair. Eddie groaned, the sound mutating into a wicked snarl, and suddenly Frank's weapon clattered to the far side of the room.

Waylon's heart fluttered softly. Frank was still a force to be reckoned with, but without his saw he was nothing compared to Gluskin. They were safe.

He lowered his camera hand, eyes locked onto Eddie's recently-located arm. The sleeve of his button up was torn, flared out and pasted down by a layer of thick, splotchy red. The cut wasn't quite bone-deep, but close enough. Eddie's other arm was currently pressed across the entirety of The Cook's chest, pinning him to the wall.

"Hey," Waylon said, taking a step forward. "Let's get out of here. You're hurt." He stared at Frank, tried hard to ignore the beady, manic eyes that fluttered all over his body, the open mouth stained with unidentified entrails.

Eddie didn't respond. He pressed harder against Frank's chest.

"Eddie?" Waylon asked. Another step. His hands fumbled with the camera, palms sweaty.

Gluskin's back was turned to Waylon, but the computer tech could see the heavy heave of the other man's shoulders, could catch the corner of lips broad and upturned.

"You come into my home," Eddie said, pulling his injured arm back and throwing a fist into Frank's side. " _My_ home. And try to take what's _mine_?" Arm pulled back again, another thick punch.

Waylon froze in his tracks. He recognized that voice, that tremble of mania. Was it happening again? So soon after the first time?

"Eddie," he said carefully. "Just ... just let him go. We need to get out of here."

Eddie didn't seem to hear him. He pulled his arm back again, completely oblivious to the gaping wound, the chunks of flesh shredded and reaching down towards his sleeve. He landed a blow to Frank's ribbed side, a satisfying crunch echoing through the room, then tossed the man to the ground like so much dead weight.

"Let him go," Waylon whispered, suddenly horrified. Frank was just as helpless to his own mania as Eddie, and Waylon fought for both of them, for _all_ of them, for all the patients subjected to Murkoff's particular brand of abuse. "Let him go," he said again, voice rising, "Eddie, _let him go!_ "

Eddie reared his foot back, then stomped down on Frank’s nose. Again and again and again, until his face was concaved, a chalice filled with blood.

It was happening. Waylon stumbled back, fingers grappling for any sort of hold on reality. He knocked over a mannequin, bundled waves of white fabric fluttering to the ground. Eddie was losing control again, the mindless killer, eager to dip his blade into any body he saw fit, and this time Waylon had nowhere to hide. 

Gluskin thrust his foot down with one final, sickening crunch, then turned slightly, head tilted to the side.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, face the picture of perfect apathy. He rotated, heel squishing in the mottled remains of Frank's face.

Not manic.

Not delirious.

Waylon was going to throw up.

He turned his head quickly, hunched over, and heaved bile on the altar. When he turned back, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, Eddie was staring at him with one raised eyebrow and a sour twist to his lips.

"Are you done?" Eddie asked, then moved to cross his arms, but winced the second he tried.

It was one thing, Waylon thought, to be completely helpless to your unethical impulses. But it was another thing entirely to be perfectly okay with those impulses in the first place. Eddie hadn't lost control. He killed a man, and he'd been aware of every moment of it. Had reveled in it. Adrenaline pinpointed in a controlled rush, something calculated, more monstrous than madness.

The sound of ripped fabric drew Waylon back to reality. His blurred lump of focus cleared on Eddie's hunched form. Pieces of Gluskin's oxford button-up were torn off in strips, wrapped artfully around his wound, and pulled tight with steady fingers and the bite of teeth.

He heard it, then. A sickening wheeze, like someone breathing through molasses. Frank wasn’t dead.

Eddie tilted his head towards the incapacitated bag of bones. He turned, hovered his foot over the cannibal’s ribcage, and—

“STOP!” Waylon’s voice pierced through the muggy quiet. He rushed to Eddie’s side, pulled on the man’s injured arm. Unbalanced him. Eddie’s foot crashed down on hard concrete, his eyes flat and cold when he whirled around to pin Waylon with a single look.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. Waylon was struck by the level tone. He’d anticipated blind rage, was ready for a fight, but was completely unprepared for a killer approaching him like life was an incredibly _stupid_ resource.

“He can’t follow us now,” Waylon said, and noticed how he panted, how his heart was racing as if he’d been the one to fight off a man wielding a chainsaw. “He’s …” Waylon glanced down at what could only be appropriately described as a bloody sack of sticks. Frank coughed up something Waylon hoped wasn’t a piece of his lung. “He’s harmless. You’re done.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow at that. Ignored the body laying limp at his feet.

“Done?” he asked, attention poured in Waylon’s direction. “You can’t sheath a bullet after it’s been fired.”

“You’re not a bullet,” Waylon said. He reached up again, fingers spread and ready to hook around Eddie’s forearm, but hesitated, thought better of it. “And I’m not a gun. That’s a shitty metaphor, we’re wasting time.”

How the hell was he supposed to appeal to a sociopath’s sense of human decency? He doubted talking about right and wrong, the greater good, forgiveness, would have an impact, and Eddie still seemed incredibly unconvinced.

Waylon took a step back, then another. He needed distance. He couldn’t think past the sour smell of copper soaking into the floorboards.

“He doesn’t have to die,” he said.

“He’ll follow us,” Eddie replied.

“Not before we get out of here.”

“I’m not betting my freedom on crazy.”

“You’re crazy, too!”

That seemed to grab Eddie’s attention. Not in the best of ways, Waylon noted, grounding himself when Eddie paced closer. No words. Just a looked that seemed to weigh Waylon’s worth.

“You’re both crazy,” Waylon continued. He felt himself digging a hole, but by then he was committed. “And that’s the point. That’s why he needs to live. Because if he deserves to die, then everyone in here deserves to die, and I— I just don’t think that’s true.” There. Eulogy recited, headstone in place.

Eddie stood uncomfortably close. Near enough for Waylon to feel heat radiating off his chest. And though his position didn’t shift, and his demeanor seemed carved in marble, something about the flatness of his eyes gained depth.

The madman folded his arms—Waylon could hear a slight hitch in the back of his throat when makeshift bindings squeezed tight around the wound.

“We’re wasting time,” Eddie finally said, then reached into his pants pocket and handed Waylon the key.

******

Gunshots in the distance. Waylon had hoped that moving beyond the locked door would provide some semblance of safety. But that was optimistic. And this was Mount Massive.

The clanging noises were still a distance off, though, and the hallway Waylon found himself in was the cleanest part of the asylum he’d run across since working in the sterile basement facility.

“Let’s regroup,” he said, striding towards one of the hallway doors. He pushed it open with a gentle creak, peaked his head around the corner. A simple mahogany desk pushed into one corner, one chair behind it, two on the opposite side. Bookcases. A confetti parade of scattered documents, like the inhabitant of the room had startled, and not had enough time to clean his mess.

Eddie hovered close behind, a shadow that practically creeped up Waylon’s spine. The computer technician swallowed down the scratching nervousness stuck in his throat. Stepped into the room, turned with a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel.

“You’re not gonna bleed out on me, are you?” he asked, propping himself against the desk.

Eddie folded into one of the empty chairs, his demeanor the physical embodiment of a groan. He looked … ragged, Waylon noted. Messy and drained. Repeated exposure had made the man’s scars more bearable, but the technician’s eyes still caught a second too long on their jagged edges (and for a moment, Waylon felt guilty, felt bad for highlighting this man’s physical deformities, but couldn’t help the thought, couldn’t stop himself from believing that every evil thing Eddie Gluskin had done in his life had somehow blossomed across his face). 

Gluskin caught him staring. Those sharp blue eyes pinned Waylon down like a butterfly’s wing on a slab of cork. But they didn’t flinch, or judge, or seethe. Simply watched, calmly, from a distance.

“I need a needle and thread,” Eddie said. His hand wrapped firmly around the wound, applying pressure. The swatch of fabric had helped for a time, but dark red was already flooding out.

Waylon nodded, pushed off the desk, rounded it to dig through the drawers. Needle and thread … needle and thread … 

“Let’s hope the person who ran this office was a woman,” Waylon said offhand, digging through piles of misplaced calculators and loose paper clips.

“Why?” Gluskin asked.

Waylon glanced up, saw an arched eyebrow.

“Uh, er.” He thought of Lisa, suddenly, her nimble fingers like a vision, his two boys in their undies hopping around on one foot, begging her to patch up their jeans quick because Vinnie Grayson and his crew were racing bikes up and down the street and they wanted, no _needed_ , to make him eat their dust. Little ash blonde heads faded, and where Waylon had seen thin, artistic fingertips, he found himself focusing instead on large, long-fingered hands dirty with red. “Because,” he continued softly. “Women patch things up?”

The side of Gluskin’s mouth tipped down. He held Waylon’s gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“Don’t be so swinish,” he said.

Waylon felt like he’d been slapped in the face, the memory of his wife tainted. “What?”

“Not all women are tailors.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Such overgeneralized statements are unbecoming of you.”

“I didn’t _mean_ it like that, I was thinking of—”

Waylon bit his tongue, let it writhe between his teeth for a moment. Close call. The last thing he wanted was a sociopathic murderer to know anything about his family. He ripped open the last drawer, bottom left, pointedly ignoring the heat of Gluskin’s attention pressing uncomfortably against the top of his head.

“Besides,” Waylon said, pausing in his search. He focused on the cluttered drawer, practically hidden behind the desk. “You’re one to talk.”

Mantras of _whore, slut, not-a-mother_ rang in Waylon’s ears.

“I don’t follow,” Eddie said, and that made Waylon look up. They locked eyes. The computer-tech chewed on his lower lip.

“You really don’t remember anything when you black out, do you?”

Eddie moved his head left and right, once, very slowly, miniscule motions.

Waylon looked down again, started rifling through the drawer. Definitely wasn’t a topic he was comfortable pushing.

“What do I say?” Eddie asked suddenly.

“Uh,” Waylon responded. Heat creeped up his neck and wrapped around his face. His fingertips brushed along the edge of a spool of thread, which he snatched up quickly and zeroed all of his attention on when next opening his mouth. “ _Whore_. That’s a big one. _Not a mother. Slut._ Um. Things like … that.” He finished lamely, squeezed the spool in his hand like he could pour his paranoid feelings of impending doom into it. 

Waylon wasn’t a psychiatrist, so he wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for dealing with a patient with a terrible alter-ego. Was he supposed to eavesdrop? Report back all his findings, so Gluskin might have a better chance at understanding how to control himself? Or would bringing up forgotten memories trigger another episode? The last thing he needed was a knife between his legs.

When he steeled himself and peeled away from kneeling in front of the desk, Waylon was surprised to see a disturbingly pensive serial killer staring off into a great big nothingness. Gluskin’s eyes were glued to the bookcase. He looked hungry, but the kind of hungry that knew it would be fed soon, so just sat and waited for its prey to come to it.

“Found some thread,” Waylon said. His voice struck match-like in the silence. “No needles, though.”

Eddie blinked once, then slid his gaze over. “Good enough.”

**************

Using a paper clip as a needle was problematic. Primarily because the paper clip wasn’t sharp enough to pierce skin in a timely manner. Eddie had to pinch his fingertips near the edge, then shimmy bendable metal beneath his skin. It was slow going, and always incredibly uncomfortable when he reached the curved end of his makeshift needle, the little bump that widened the hole in his flesh when he pushed it through, dry, thick twine scraping along his wound. But after the first few tries, he grew accustomed to the sensation. Not the pain, of course, that stuck with him, but the strange materials he was left with. A needle and thread weren’t unfamiliar to him—he could practically see his fingers morph into stubby childhood hands, could almost smell the sickly sweet rush of pine clawing through the open window of his old rickety house, his needle piercing through a thin layer of leather, mother in the background humming into a bubbling pot of stew, father guiding his hands around the practice patch.

His memories warped into fantasies. He imagined turning towards his mother, his gangly pre-teen body tossed into a chair at the kitchen table, his mouth curved wide and up, yelling _Slut. Slut. You dumb, stupid whore!_ Imagined the way his father might lay a heavy, warm hand on his collarbone, squeeze gently, give him an approving nod.

Eddie tore deeply into his own skin, jammed the pointed end of the paper clip directly into his wound. He closed his eyes around the images, let them fade, paced his breaths.

Patching himself up was slow work. Waylon hadn’t offered assistance, for which Eddie was particularly thankful. The idiot would’ve butchered the rest of his arm off, no doubt. Or worse, replaced Eddie’s clean, neat lines with some truly monstrous patchwork.

He could still hear gunshots in the distance. Automatic rifles. They were a ways away, fading with every passing minute. Moving away from them, from the entrance. Good. Part of Eddie could hardly believe he’d made it so far. He hadn’t seen the administrative area of Mount Massive since he’d first been transferred. The hallways were unfamiliar, but that warmed him, made something close to hope lodge in his esophagus. 

Something close to—

“Waylon,” he said. He stared at his arm. Halfway through with the stitches. He wouldn’t have time. “It’s happening.”

He heard something clunk to the floor, a stapler swept off the desk.

“What?” Waylon said. Urgent, choked.

That lump in Eddie’s throat grew, ballooned up to his jaw. Sour sensations made him clench his teeth, grind them together for a moment. It felt like the beginning rush of a cruel headache, that first shattering thump, but only one, slow and lethargic and swelled to the point of bursting.

“It’s happening. You need to—” Everything felt sharper, _hurt_ so much sharper. His fingers trembled. The makeshift needle slipped from his hand, swung like a pendulum, still tied to his flesh. Lips spread wide, wider, his gums tingling, like he could rip his grin apart tooth-by-tooth with a smile.

Reality was a projected image in the back of his head. He recalled leaning back, looking up at the small room around them, at Waylon’s pale face, his thin layer of stubble, the wide prey-like eyes. Saw the man stride across the room, pass him ( _close enough to touch, to touch, to take, just one little caress, gentle now, gentle_ ), hesitate at the door.

_Run_ , Eddie thought. Every dim corner blinked into a high contrast blur. _Run you idiot, run._

Waylon grabbed the door knob, squeezed it. Shut the door with a firm motion, then turned around and leaned against the solid wood.

_Idiot, you fucking idiot_ — Everything was gone, swimming in a pool of sharp ceruse and mottled grey. Then—

Eddie felt good.

Incredibly good. 

He looked around the room, blinked slowly at his unfamiliar surroundings. Every motion was a controlled, lethargic stretch. He rose from the chair like a shadow out of deep water, pirouetted on his heel to take everything in. Peculiar. He didn’t remember wandering so far from home. A change in scenery could be nice every now and then, but already he felt that familiar ache for home. Maybe after a quick shower he could slip on a pair of loafers, recline in bed. Ah, but what could he plan for dinner? Something light, he wasn’t particularly hungry, but neither was he particularly choosy. 

“Eddie?”

The voice came as a shock. Eddie spun back around, fists clenched, ready to defend himself. Unfamiliar neighborhoods were always filled with unfamiliar people, after all.

The person who stood before him was … divine. Short, messy blonde hair, eyes the clearest blue he’d ever seen. 

Eddie unclenched his fingers, straightened his posture, and tried very hard not to rub the embarrassment off the back of his neck. Such a silly thing to do, and in front of such a lovely lady.

“Oh,” he said, smiling gently. “Ah. Have we met?”

He looked a little closer. Odd. Her features swam around like tadpoles chasing their tails in a puddle. Nothing was very distinct, unless he poured all of his attention on individual parts. Like those lips, pressed pink between white teeth. Or the curve of high cheekbones, the slope of a firm jaw.

“Actually,” Eddie said, trailing off a bit to study her. “You do look rather familiar.”

Images rippled beneath the pond of her face. A smooth back pressed into his chest. His hand splayed across a flat sternum, pushing. A stranger, a man with bright eyes, yelling, worrying his lips, camera clenched in one hand, tongue licking at soft words.

“Yeah,” she said, took a small step forward. Her voice was hollow, tinny, like they stood in two separate tunnels connected by a string. “Yeah, we’ve met before. I’m Waylon, remember?”

He’d heard that name before. His one, his other, his—

“ _Darling_ ,” Eddie said, then crossed the space between them in long steps. She jerked back, pressed herself against the closed door. Eddie paused, felt bile in the back of his throat ( _monster, unloveable, unworthy, disgusting vile filthy piece of shit you take it and you tell me how much you **love it**_ ), grabbed at his head to wring the thoughts from his brain. For a moment, he felt incredibly hurt. A physical pain, one that ate at his heart, that made him feel like he’d been bruised from the inside out. But then he remembered. An unfamiliar place. Unfamiliar people. And god only knew how they’d gotten there.

She was _scared_.

“Oh, Waylon,” he said, stepping closer. He swept her up in his arms, pulled her stiff body against his chest. She was shivering. “It’s alright, now. Shh, sh. I’m here, it’ll be alright.” Hands rubbed circles in the small of her back. He bent at the waist, just a bit, and hooked his chin around her shoulder, mumbled soothing sounds into her ear.

The last thing Eddie wanted was for her to be afraid. They were going to start a family together (he’d do it _right_ , not like—) and a woman with shot nerves would never be healthy enough to take on the incredible responsibility of motherhood.

“I’ll take you home. Can’t have you exerting yourself too much, dear. You’ll have plenty of that when the children are born.”

Waylon stiffened, mumbled into his chest, pressed so tight to him he hardly heard her speak. Eddie pulled away slightly, his hands wrapped warm and firm around her arms to reassure her that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“What was that?” he asked, eyes crinkled up, amused at how utterly _adorable_ she looked. Her chin tucked down, eyes averted, bright red blush all across her face.

“I think,” she said, pronouncing each word with an incredible amount of care. “I think there’s some … confusion here.”

Eddie felt his muscles turn to marble. It wasn’t rejection, but the tone of voice sounded dangerously close. His fingertips gripped a little harder.

“Oh?”

He tried to keep his cool. He wasn’t sure he could take another disappointment. Not with his dating history, the repeated attempts and remarkable failures, the line of women who had cheated on him in the past. The ones who had promised such a bright future, then ripped his heart out and left him cold and alone. He wasn’t sure he had any more hearts to give.

Eddie swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. Prepared for the worst.

“Uh,” Walon said, glancing pointedly at one of Eddie’s hands, the way it squeezed into rough fabric. She turned, looked him in the eye. “Eddie, can we talk?”

“We’re talking right now.” Eddie tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, forced it to sound assured and powerful. Ignored how it made Waylon wince.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Um. Eddie. I can’t have children. I’m a man.”

Eddie stared at her swimming features. They cleared up, briefly, but were suspiciously unidentifiable. Still, he felt a pull towards this person, as if their combined energies were magnetized. It was something he could only attribute towards love.

And faggots weren’t allowed to love.

(At least, that’s what his daddy told him, one hand roughing up his hair, shoving him face down in their uncle’s wide field, _you saying he’s pretty? you a **faggot** , boy? I’ll show you what twinks like you are good for. I’ll show you what ‘love’ means to a **goddamn faggot**._ )

Eddie’s fingers tightened, more and more and more. He stared just past Waylon’s shoulder, eyes glossy and distant, stuck in the mud of that memory, face pressed into tire tracks, the air hot and harsh on his naked legs.

“No,” he said suddenly, ripping himself away from those thoughts. “No, I can make you perfect. I can make you who you really are.” He ripped himself away from Waylon, too. Three, four steps back, until his backside crashed into the desk and he knocked a lamp onto the ground.

It stayed intact. Which was more than he could say about himself.

Waylon stepped forward, one hand rubbing against her— his? No, no, _her_ arm.

“Eddie,” _she_ said. “I—This _is_ who I really am. I’m a guy. And I’m happy about that, it’s—”

“Don’t lie to me you _stupid whore!_ ” Eddie lunged forward, grabbed Waylon by the throat. He backed her up, pressed her tight against the far wall, and _squeezed_.

That was it. Waylon was just another lying slut, a cowardly one too afraid to admit her true feelings. So she came up with an absurd mistruth. The thought that _she_ was actually a _he_ pounded into Eddie’s skull, made him shiver with rage.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he asked, face inches from hers. Her mouth was wide open, tongue flopping, trying to form words when no air could pass through her throat. “If you don’t love me, then _say you don’t love me_. Don’t try to fool me with—”

There were hands on Eddie’s face, suddenly. Gentle enough to knock the rage out of him. They cupped his cheeks, ran smoothly over his scars. Tickled across his eyebrows in a synchronized sweep. Then laid atop the crease just above his eyeballs, fingernails digging with a small amount of pressure. A warning.

Eddie froze, released Waylon’s esophagus just enough to allow the other to speak.

“I don’t love you,” he— _she_ said. Squeaked, really, her voice low and raw. “I don’t _know_ you, Eddie.” Pause. “Let me go.”

He complied immediately. Took a step back, another, and another, until he was pressed into the desk again. Waylon leaned heavily against the door, heaved in great gulps of air. Then straightened up. Seemed to steel him— _her_ self. Opened her mouth to say something. Closed it again.

She took a step forward, slowly, hands splayed out in front of her like she was calming a wild animal. Eddie felt like a beast caught in a bear trap. He wanted to thrash, to rage, to break apart every bone in Waylon’s body and put her together in his image. The way he saw her. As beautiful as she could ever be. But her demeanor—calm, but tight—stilled him. Like a hand smoothing out unruly waves.

“Can I come closer?” she asked, pausing in one of her steps.

Eddie swallowed (he didn’t recall ever hearing those words in sequence before, directed towards him), nodded.

Waylon moved gently, closer and closer until she was standing right in front of him, standing between his spread legs. She reached forward, very _very_ slowly, made eye contact, then touched Eddie’s arm. A string dangled from it, and something small, and for a moment Eddie was confused as to why he’d apparently been in the middle of sewing himself up.

“You’re hurt,” Waylon said, following the line of string to grab what appeared to be an unraveled paper clip. “Mind if I finish up these stitches?” She waited for Eddie’s compliance.

Eddie wasn’t … familiar with the care being given to him. The gentle considerations. The soft touch.

Waylon _had_ to be a woman.

He nodded, then winced when blunt metal pierced through his skin. He was distracted by her proximity, the pleasant tickling scent of her hair ducked just below his chin. The in-out motion of twine through flesh became rhythmic, mesmerizing. When Eddie tilted his head to watch what she was doing, he had to bite his tongue around an insult. The patchwork was _atrocious_. But it was cute that she’d try.

When Waylon finished with the stitches, she ripped a long line of fabric off a spare coat hanging in the corner, then wrapped it tightly around Eddie’s wound.

“There, good to go.”

Eddie heard a click. Pushed Waylon to the side.

He was on his feet before a second thought crossed his mind. The door burst open, and a man in black kevlar moved inside. The automatic rifle in his hands fired, hit the back wall, the empty space where Eddie had been. Eddie’s new position placed him closer to the door, towards the side of it. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it to the side, some guttural noise ripping from his throat at the heat that burned his hand. The man in kevlar jumped back, knocked Waylon in the head with the butt of his rifle. Eddie watched her go down like a rock in water.

He rushed forward, bore his superior size on top of the man, wrestled him to the floor. Two thumbs pressed deep into wide, terrified eyes. Popped them like cordial cherries. The man screamed, and Eddie wriggled his fingers between his teeth, pried his jaw far enough apart to break it. Reached into his pocket, grabbed his knife, and stuck him like a pig. Quick, brutal, efficient.

_Waylon_.

He rushed towards his companion’s limp body, knelt down next to it. Placed two bloody fingers against Waylon’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

It was there. Steady.

Eddie stared for a moment at the other’s unconscious body, forced himself to focus on individual parts. Ashy blonde hair, cropped close around the ears but messy and wild on top. Slight hints of stubble around the jawline. Wide hands. Flat chest.

Him. He.

Eddie scooped him up in his arms, laid the man’s head across his shoulder.

Took him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve reviewed what I wrote previously, and a few details were bothering me, so here are some **fixes for previous chapters:** Waylon’s nametag in Ch. 1 should be numbers (he’s patient 2536). Later in the chapter, then, Eddie fails to know Waylon’s name because it’s not directly stitched on his uniform. In both chapters 1 and 2, Waylon doesn’t squeeze past a small concrete gap to reach the safe room—it’s an open door half blocked off by a bookcase. In Ch. 2, since Eddie doesn’t remember his manic episodes, he wouldn’t remember Waylon’s name when he’s lucid again. I’ve also updated/shortened the story summary.


	4. Altercation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final grades came in, made straight A’s! Thank you again, so much, for all of the amazing comments. They’re incredibly encouraging!
> 
> Just a quick thought, because it’s been on my mind, but I do want to thank Variant (the wonderful author of _To Be Well_ ), wherever they are, for having written such a beautiful story. Their contribution to the Outlast fandom is what inspired me to write this in the first place, honestly. So, Variant, if you’re out there somewhere, you’re in my thoughts and I truly hope you’re doing well.
> 
> **TW: Heavily loaded with non-consensual implications.**
> 
> There is a _lot_ of unfinished character development that is started in this chapter. It’ll be explored more in depth in the next.

_Him._

_He._

The words spun around in Eddie’s brain, like headless chickens contorting through their last spasms.

_Him._

Past the Male Ward’s locked iron door.

_He._

Through the Vocational Block’s rotten gymnasium.

Gluskin had a broad domain. Most patients kept a wide berth, unless they were too far gone to notice their surroundings. The closest Eddie ever came to a man in his right mind was when harsh whispers of _the Groom is coming, the Groom is coming!_ fluttered around the corner of a long hall.

Waylon’s head hung like lead on Eddie’s shoulder.

His yellow hair.

The scratch of his stubble.

A red blush stained Eddie’s cheeks, crept down his neck. He looked pointedly forward, tried not to think of the man in his arms, the implications of his quickened pulse.

Fingernails pressed crescent moons into the other’s skin.

( _I’ll show you what ‘love’ means to a **goddamn—**_ )

**************

Waylon’s skull was a thin piece of fabric stretched around a beating drum. His headache was so vibrant it made him nauseous. The last time he’d been knocked out (had it been a handful of hours? a full day?), Jeremy Blaire’s rat face had grinned down at his fading vision, and a doctor’s wet tongue had startled him awake. This time, he grappled with the details of his unconsciousness. Flesh pinched beneath the bite of blunt metal ( _stitching, stitches—I was patching up Eddie_ ). An earsplitting boom ( _like … like gunshots_ ). Blunt trauma to the head.

He jerked awake at that last thought, winced at the bright glare of a light that weasled through his eyes and straight into the thump of his brain. Realized, quickly, that his arms and legs were restrained.

Terror washed over him, the thought that Murkoff had caught him again, tied him up, were back in business and ready to twist his psyche into an amalgamation of nightmarish fantasies. He thought about Eddie, first. The repercussions of Mount Massive’s treatment. The horrifying realization that he might never see his wife again, his little boys, haunted him. That Spencer would grow up and nick his chin on a razor blade when he finally hit puberty. That Liam, young as he was, would remember Waylon’s face just well enough to resent his disappearance. And Lisa, how she’d _fight_. How she’d ruin her life looking for answers. How, if she ever found them, if she ever found _him_ , he wouldn’t even recognize her. He might rip her apart, piece by piece, and chain her up in a gymnasium of victims if ever given the chance.

Waylon clenched his eyes shut, jerked his head to the side.

He was going to have a panic attack. Perfect goddamn timing.

The smell hit him, second. Thick and oozing, like wading through a swamp of piss and blood. His nausea heightened. He opened his mouth to cough, and a stream of bile poured out, ran down the rough wood scraping at his cheek, dripped rhythmically to the floor. The force of his sick stomach pried his eyelids open.

There was a small stretch of black space between him and a wobbly old gurney. His camera sitting there. A body on the table. The bulging eyes of a corpse stared through him, its head split open. Its jaw locked around a wide scream.

Either Mount Massive had taken some major pay cuts, or Waylon was about a mile away from a sterile room.

He closed his mouth around a tight groan, around the urge to vomit again.

Noticed, thirdly, as a testament to how mottled his priorities had become, that he was stark naked, spread eagle, and straddling a table saw.

“Are you sick?” Eddie’s voice clicked into place next to his ear, startled him. It was warm, incredibly warm, the heat of it laid across his face, soft and blanket-like. Gluskin was kissing-close, bent at the waist and peering down at Waylon like he’d just discovered Sleeping Beauty. The need for personal space itched at the back of Waylon’s mind.

“Eddie,” he said, heavy-headed and just short of passing out again. “Murkoff must’ve called in backup. We need to hurry. Help me out of this.”

When Waylon clenched his fists and jerked roughly at his restraints, the realization of his predicament snapped into place. Before Eddie opened his mouth in that lip-splitting grin. Before Eddie ran a hand down the length of his thigh, fingertips a shy brush away from harassment. Before all of that, Waylon _knew_.

He recalled, somewhere in the fuzzy confines of his struck skull, the man with multiple personalities, the indelible tremor of his voice when he spat _Gluskin_ , when he whimpered around _The Groom_. He thought of the macabre pair of lovebird music and massacred childbirth. The head peeking out between a sewn stomach. Bodies mutilated and hung in the beams of a gymnasium.

“Eddie,” he said again, slow and soft. He felt the tendons in his arms shake. “What are you doing?” Fluttered pulse, anxiety blurring his vision.

“I’ll make the cut fast,” Eddie whispered, frantic but assured, like Waylon’s comfort was of his utmost concern. “It will hurt, but all worthy things do.”

Waylon’s mind wrapped around one word: _please_. He couldn’t breathe past it, tucked his chin down to stare at his naked body, at the alarming rise and fall of his chest.

He was going to die there.

Not in his bed, children grown, old knobbed fingers clasped in Lisa’s shaky hand. Not after he’d had the pleasure of seeing his boys age into men, their dreams and aspirations blossoming over the course of their youth.

He was going to die on Gluskin’s table, ripped in half by a mad lover, terrified and tongue-tied around a hoarse _please_.

The whine of Eddie’s table saw skittered up his bones.

He saw Lisa’s chestnut brown hair, like a vision, fanned around her face. The high rise of her cheekbones. The tapered chin. That shit-eating grin she wore when she sank his aircraft carrier in _Battleship_. Her blown pupils when he kissed a trail down her thigh, when his tongue dipped inside, up, circled—when ecstasy made her stab a heel into the small of his back, and he groaned, and she gasped, and their shared mishap tore a laugh from both their throats.

Eddie jerked the wooden platform down, guided it towards the blade.

Waylon thrashed in his restraints, the image of his wife, of his children, blinding him. Static and fuzz poured abstract apparitions in his head, pulled on the synapses in his brain. Like hate and hope bled by anger. Like the burn of Wernicke’s hypnotic images, the “scripts” he’d seen, were coming alive.

The wooden restraints were old, eaten up by termites and soaked in blood. Waylon jerked his arms until the plank on his right bent, splintered, ripped free.

He could feel wood dust spray between his legs.

Eddie stopped, let out an animal noise of displeasure. The saw continued to whine.

Something in Waylon didn’t feel right. He felt manic, desperate. In his head, _please_ had morphed into _stop_ and _now_ and _I’ll make you suffer I’ll make you **suffer**_. His mind snapped through a thousand different threads, sifted them around, landed on a line of thought that screamed for his survival.

He shook his free hand, decomposing wood sliding off in pieces, tightened his fist. Quick. While Gluskin was still reaching for his fingers, still trying to contain him.

Then opened his mouth, yelled, “Kiss me!”

Eddie froze. He looked like he’d been doused in Titanic-grade water.

The table saw continued to buzz.

Waylon shouted around it, “Kiss me! Kiss me, Eddie, and if you like it … if you like it, then you don’t have to change me.”

Lisa always said Waylon was literal minded, that he liked his concrete if-then statements. They held a simplistic enough premise, with the expectation of a solid solution. No confusion. No opportunity for misinterpretation.

Waylon didn’t know what Eddie’s psychoses were. He couldn’t predict an outcome. But he’d seen enough of the man’s alter ego to notice a pattern. Love. He ranted about children, about starting a family. About finding the perfect wife. It was a desire that transcended the bounds of lust, that reached beyond the need for a quick fuck and an even quicker kill. Gluskin was obsessed with affection, and care, and unparalleled acceptance. And despite how twisted those fantasies became when projected into the real world, Waylon hoped those core cravings could be directed in a more productive manner. Could be altered. Manipulated.

The saw choked off suddenly, left the room eerily quiet. Waylon considered struggling with his other restraints, when Eddie’s warm fingers wrapped around his ankle and started to untie him. The computer tech laid his head against the table, tried not to think about those violating touches, tried to calm his labored breath.

Gluskin finished unknotting the last rope binding, the one that ripped circulation from his arm.

Waylon sat upright, slung his legs over the side of the table. Immediately grappled for his patient uniform.

He was going to have to kiss Eddie Gluskin. A sociopath. A murderer.

A man.

Jittery fingers wrangled the zipper up to his chin, concealed his nakedness.

Not that he found anything wrong with kissing a man. Lisa and he had already considered what they might say if one of their sons came out as gay, drunk on cheap wine and plotting their kid’s futures on a _Monopoly_ board for fun. They’d be fine with it, still love their child unconditionally. The world was a slowly changing place, and there was no room in it for unjustified bigotry. Waylon knew someone’s sexual orientation would never change how he felt about that person.

Only, he’d never considered kissing a man _himself_.

The thought jarred his mind to a halt. Him and his wife had their celebrity crushes, had their inebriated nights of _Kill, Fuck, Marry_ when the boys were sleeping over at Vinnie Grayson’s house. But that was all in jest.

The thought petrified him. 

Was he supposed to wrap his hands around the other man’s waist, like he did with Lisa, or was he supposed to anchor them around the shoulders, like she did with him? What if he was a shitty kisser and his wife had just politely let him slobber all over her for eight years in a row? What would stubble feel like?

… What if he liked it?

Gluskin was locked in one spot, staring at him. No smile on his face, just a serious, intense stare, like he’d caught Waylon in his crosshairs.

Waylon tried to focus on the other man’s more pleasant features. Like his considerable height. The clean line of his jaw ( _don’t think about the scabs, the marring, the drops of blue swimming in a pool of red_ ). Those gloved hands, with long, wicked fingers left bare—piano player’s hands, easily. His lips were ( _mottled_ ) nicely shaped, like a paintbrush had danced gracefully across his face.

If Gluskin wasn’t so batshit insane, he wouldn’t be a horrible person to kiss.

Waylon’s wrists throbbed, burned by his struggle with an unbearably tight rope. He rubbed at them, scuffed his bare foot against the floorboards. Did anything in his power to ignore the glowering blue eyes of his sociopathic companion. Then breathed, slowly, in and out, because he couldn’t wait forever.

The idea that Eddie wouldn’t like it crossed his mind, when he finally glanced up and locked eyes. And in the case of that scenario, Waylon supposed he’d just have to run, like he’d been doing, run until air was choked from him, until his lungs exploded.

He stepped forward. Eddie stiffened. Waylon saw fight-or-flight etched into his body language and thought, suddenly, that Gluskin was little more than a cornered animal. It was a ridiculous realization, one that had the computer tech swallowing down a harsh laugh. The Groom, as he’d heard, whispered in fright, was not the prey—not by a long shot. 

“Eddie,” Waylon said. He had to clear his throat to rid it of the gravel that had spilled there. “I’m going to—Can I—I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

He inched closer, tried very hard to maintain eye contact.

Gluskin’s quiet regard was permission enough. The closer Waylon got, the more his nerves marched down his arms and legs like little electric ants. He breached the other man’s personal space, felt the heat of him, the strong juxtaposition between that and the empty air at his back. Eddie tilted his head down, and Waylon had to tilt his up. A handful of inches between their lips. Waylon closed his eyes, tried to think of Lisa, but was assaulted by the thought of a sliced up grin, a broad chest, shoulders encapsulating him, locking him in place. Perfectly shaped eyebrows, slicked back hair, and those lips, those painted lips, the _idea_ of their press, of bared teeth ripping into his mouth, of a slick tongue forcing him to submit.

He could feel Gluskin’s breath fan across his face. Sharp, and sour, and unbearably warm. Leaned in, waited.

Pain, a sudden spike of it, blossomed against Waylon’s stomach, made him jolt back and bend in half. His eyes popped open into frightened disks, and he lifted his head just enough to see Gluskin’s clenched fist come in for another blow.

It knocked against the side of his head, made a high pitched ring jostle around between his ears.

“You think you’re pretty?” Gluskin said, his voice a terrible snarl. He grabbed onto Waylon’s uniform, fingers curled around crisp patient numbers, held him in place while he struck a harsh fist into the computer tech’s ribs. “Are you saying …” Threw Waylon to the ground. “Are you calling me …” Kicked him in the small of his back.

Waylon couldn’t breathe. He grappled for some kind of purchase on the ground, tried to get up, get on his feet, run run run. But Eddie was too quick in his violence, gave no moment of reprise between bone-shattering hits.

“Are you calling me a _goddamn **faggot?**_ ”

Waylon tried to reason with him, but when he pried apart his lips the only thing that came out was a sloppy sob. A shoe struck against his face, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

His world rotated, suddenly. Gluskin had grabbed the back of his uniform and used it to pull him back onto his feet. The shift was disorienting, too sudden for Waylon to make use of it. Standing upright brought to light how beaten he felt. His ribs ached with every breath, undoubtedly bruised, and his face felt like a busted scab.

He was pushed, forecfully, against the bench he’d been tied to. Doubled over it, bent at the waist, the saw a row of bloody teeth grinning to his left.

And then Eddie was on him. Pressed against him. Chest to his back, forcing him to stay down.

A hot firmness pressed into Waylon’s backside. Pushed forward, like a threat.

_Hard._

Waylon’s eyes widened.

_He’s hard._

Waylon became something less than human in that moment. He grit his teeth hard enough to break them, clenched his fists, and _thrashed_. The wail that ripped through his throat screeched through the room, down the halls. He didn’t care. He flung his arms back, grappled with the madman, dug his fingernails deep into a weighty forearm. Ripped. Tore. Felt skin and blood cake below his nails. Not enough.

Gluskin grabbed his wrists, pulled them back and pressed Waylon’s upper body down until the computer tech’s head was pillowed by the wooden plank he laid across. Waylon kicked out, stomped heavily on Eddie’s shoes. Dug his heels into the man’s legs. He heard water rushing through his head, a deep waterfall trying to drown him. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t _working_.

“I’ll show you,” Eddie said, his teeth scraping along the back of Waylon’s neck. “I’ll show you what love means to a _faggot_.”

“No,” Waylon barked out. Hysterical. Upended. “No no no _no no no nono **nonono**_.”

The weight jerked off of him, suddenly. Waylon heard the heavy thump of impact through the sound of coarse water. He was off the table in less than a second, vaulting it. Grabbed his camera from the other gurney, and hurdled off in the only direction that mattered: _away_. He glanced back for just a moment, just enough to see Eddie chasing down a stray patient, the man who’d pulled him away. Waylon didn’t stop to think about the good fortune of it. Only rushed forward. Through the door. Down the hall.

Gone.

*******

Waylon was in Cellblock B. He’d booked it through the confines of Eddie’s domain so fast he’d hardly considered where he was going. Only that he needed to get as far away from Gluskin’s brand of crazy as quickly as possible. 

The inhabitants were fairly docile, which was a nice change of pace. He heard soft mumbled nonsense from most, the rattle of bars from those still locked in their cells. It was the kind of ambiance that normalized the experience. If he closed his eyes and let each word slide together into an amalgamation of nonsense, then he could pretend he was outside on a busy street, in the heart of Denver, his children bowing down at the altar of _Rocket Fizz_ , his wife limiting their candy choices to three selections each.

“Hey, hey.”

One of the voices surfaced from an ocean of white noise.

Waylon opened his eyes, jarred back to the center of the cellblock. Men rattled their cages on the second floor. A few doors were flung open, revealing padded cells, quivering bodies hiding beneath their beds.

“Hey,” the man said again. Waylon turned his head to the right. The guy looked like his nose had been cut off. Blisters warped his face, his teeth too prominent.

“You were with Gluskin, weren’tcha?”

Waylon didn’t want to think about Eddie. He didn’t want to think about laying naked and spread wide. He didn’t want to think about a glassy-eyed stare zipped between a sewn stomach.

The computer tech turned on his heel, made for the steps that led to the upper level.

A harsh grip landed on his arm, stopped his momentum, turned him back around.

“No, wait,” the guy said, then let go before Waylon could lurch away. His lack of pursuit made Waylon pause.

“Yeah, I saw you down there, all strung up on his table,” the man continued, taking a step back. Giving Waylon his space.

He seemed incredibly sane to be so physically warped.

The mention of Gluskin festered through the cellblock. Harsh bangs and quiet whimpers paused, quieting the vast space. Waylon had the intense feeling that every living being was listening in on the conversation.

“I—” the patient paused, licked his thin lips. “Didja see Benny when you was there?”

It took a minute for Waylon to find his voice. It croaked out of him on his first attempt, his words little more than the sound of ripped paper. But the man didn’t seem to mind, didn’t balk or smile or laugh at his pathetic attempt at communication. Only stared at him with an eager intensity. Didn’t push. Gave him time.

“No, I don’t—I don’t think so.” The gymnasium flashed through his head. The stench of death strung up. A monument to madness. “I wouldn’t know what he looked like.” What he looked like before his transformation, before Gluskin dug his hands into flesh and played with gender.

The man took another step back, the thin skin of his forehead creasing.

The room remained still. Not a cough to break the silence.

“He’s tall. Got a thin skull, all blasted out. Ugly as sin. Benny, y’know. Benny.” His voice rose with every word, syllables piling on top of each other. “Guy kept those suits offa me. Drew attention to himself when I—” He pointed to his head, made a series of fluttering motions with his hands, like his animated gestures explained a lifetime of mental illness. 

Waylon felt like insects were crawling around in his head. The sudden realization that an entire world of shit had been dumped on these patients swelled inside his brain, made it ache.

“Was hangin’ around in the sewer for a while,” the man continued, oblivious to Waylon’s discomfort, to the way he kneaded his forehead. “Probably reeks. Heh. But everything reeks ‘round here. Benny, remember? Has a big heart. Can’t let things go, s’why he hopped on The Groom. To get him offa you. Remember?”

Benny. Waylon pictured the guy’s body tied up at the ankles, his groin split down the middle. The man who saved him from firm heat and genital mutilation. From rape. And he hadn’t even known his name.

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t think he—”

“THE BRIDE, THE BRIDE,” someone yelled from the upper floor. Waylon winced at the sound of ringing metal. The disturbance opened up a flood of noise.

“He got away!”

“... got on his knees …”

“Survived The Groom, survived The—”

“How how how how how how how how?”

“Benny, remember?”

It washed over Waylon, through him. He could feel the swell of interested parties, felt the heat of people pressing closer, crowding around. Like he was some enigma. Some horrific mistake.

He wasn’t sure where he could run. Upstairs, maybe. But he’d dropped in through an air vent and he didn’t know if he could climb back up. He’d thought he would have more time to plan an escape, to find another route. He spotted the main doors over the small crowd that had gathered, saw one of them cracked open slightly. Unlocked. Freedom. Calculations ran through his head, scenarios, those threads from before practically blinding him, telling him exactly what he needed to do to get out of the situation.

The main doors burst open while he focused on them. Enough noise to avert the crowd’s attention. A patient darted inside, half his face warped, his skull clearly cracked through a cheesecloth layer of skin. The nose was crooked, covered in blood, streams of it still pouring down onto his lips.

The man who’d first questioned Waylon brightened up. “Benny!” he said, arms spread wide.

He was alive. _Alive_. An immense weight lifted off Waylon’s chest. The insects in his head scattered. For a moment. And then—

“The Groom is coming!” Benny said, around great gulps of air. “ _The Groom is coming_.”

Everyone scattered. Immediately. A handful darted into open cells, slammed the doors shut. The majority, at least seven frantic bodies, made for the door. Waylon was frozen, a statue incapable of movement, but one straggler grabbed his arm, pulled him towards the exit with all the others.

Too late.

Benny was still standing in front of the door, one arm holding it open, the other sweeping towards it, motioning for everyone to slip through and away. And then he was eclipsed, Gluskin’s shadow a dark line that cut across the crack in his skull.

Waylon’s mouth silently formed around an open shout. His lips were strained, throat constricted with the memory of large hands wrapped around it. The man who’d grabbed his arm let go, darted off to the side. The others dispersed like sugar in water, practically dissolved against the walls, vying to go unnoticed. Waylon was left in the center of the room, inert.

Benny’s companion kept pushing forward, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

Couldn’t reach him in time.

Gluskin struck Benny across the face with enough momentum to send the patient flying to the ground. His head struck concrete with a slick slap.

Eddie was going to kill him.

The man, who spoke so highly of his friend, stopped in his tracks. Stilled by a _look_ , the way Gluskin tore through him with a simple glance, the mania of Eddie’s glare rendering the guy immobile.

Eddie was going to kill all of them.

The sound of harsh screams and heavy thuds were secondary to the thoughts in Waylon’s head. Rorschach visions bubbled behind his eyelids, memories of Wernicke’s project images, mottled men with bloody tits sewn onto their flesh, Lisa’s wide grin when she kissed him, when she yelled at him and he kissed her and they had an angry enough fuck to melt their problems away, when he kissed Liam on the top of his head and ruffled his hair, when he kissed Spencer on his forehead and he booed and complained _not in front of my friends, dad_ , when he kissed, when he kissed, when he—

The thump of Waylon’s bare feet acted as counterpoint to Eddie’s rhythmic kicking, to Benny’s groans. He zipped past the frozen man, sidestepped the bloody mess Gluskin was pummeling with his shoe, then crashed into Eddie’s chest. Grabbed both sides of his face with firm hands, slammed their lips together.

There was no artistry in it.

It was messy, and raw, and rough.

Waylon expected to be beaten again. To be ripped apart and ground into. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he deserved it. That his codes had ripped apart men’s faces, had infected their psyches. That he’d mauled Benny in irreparable ways, and still the man had saved his life. Still the man had something inside him that was honest, that was _good_. Waylon wasn’t sure goodness existed inside him anymore, not after all he’d done, not after reasoning to himself that the numbers he punched into Wernicke’s machine weren’t nearly the same thing as the effects that machine produced. He wasn’t sure he deserved to see Lisa again, to see his boys. He wasn’t sure he deserved to live.

But he knew Benny did.

Waylon expected to die. Was as ready for it as he could ever be.

But what he hadn’t anticipated was Gluskin’s active participation.

Two shaky hands curled around Waylon’s arms, slid across his neck, buried in his hair. The rumble that came from Eddie’s chest unwound him. It was deep, pained, completely and utterly wrecked.

Like maybe he thought he didn’t deserve _that_. Didn’t deserve to be kissed. Didn’t deserve the kind of intimate contact Waylon was giving him. The thought buried in Waylon’s skull. Made him want to scream, to retch, to rip Murkoff into a million tiny pieces, burn them, piss on the ashes.

Those hands couldn’t stop moving. They pulled Waylon forward, deepened the kiss, Gluskin’s tongue a powerful force that licked inside his mouth as if the madman could eat the molecules that made up his tastebuds. Fingers wrapped up in blonde hair, trembling. Frightened.

The sounds that ripped from Eddie’s throat were inhuman. A growl, a groan. The sloppy remnants of insanity pushing their way through the patient’s chest. He pulled away just enough to wrangle Waylon’s bottom lip between his teeth. Bit down, hard, and _purred_ at the coppery taste of blood.

Too much. _Too much_. Waylon thought his knees might buckle. Gluskin’s violent desperation was so far removed from anything he’d ever felt from Lisa, drowning out this man with images of his wife was impossible.

He parted his lips slightly. Let The Groom take and take and take.

Tried very hard not to like it. Not to lose himself in the madness of it. The feeling that he was Eddie’s life jacket in a sea of insanity, and how much he _enjoyed_ being someone’s lifeline. How it made the monsters in his head, the ones that screamed _your fault your fault_ , quiet down.

It stopped, suddenly, when Waylon was thrown back.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Eddie said, his breaths ragged, body strung tight.

Waylon hadn’t noticed the heat that had settled in his chest until it was violently torn away. One glance at Eddie’s bright eyes, at his stiff frown, told Waylon that the mania had passed.

That he was lucid.

Ruined, confused pleasure blocked out the reasonable part of Waylon’s mind. He launched forward before he had a chance to think about it.

It was incredibly satisfying to feel his fist bury deep into Gluskin’s stomach. Like every hit (two in the stomach, one in the ribs, his clenched fingers striking out wildly at the other man’s face) bled out the pocket of fear that had settled in his stomach like a cancerous new organ. He didn’t get many blows in before Eddie grabbed his wrists and used his superior strength to incapacitate him. But The Groom had a bloody nose, and Waylon was deeply contented with the knowledge that, by day’s end, several dark bruises would stain the man’s skin.

“You fucking rapist _pig_!” Waylon screamed, still thrashing around in Eddie’s grip, but unable to reach out and hurt him. “You’re crazy, you’re crazy, you’re _fucking insane_.” He jerked his head to the side, roughly, and latched onto Eddie’s wrist with his teeth. Clenched his jaw hard enough to taste metal, red dotting the inside of his mouth.

Eddie’s surprised shout was almost comforting. Waylon was thrown to the ground. He caught himself with his knees, the pain that traced down his legs slapping reality back in his face. Harsh, labored gasps for oxygen. Like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

He stayed down for a while, saw Gluskin out of the corner of his eye, rubbing at his bloody wrist.

“Do you still have the key?” Eddie asked. Like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t remember—

He didn’t remember.

And part of that, Waylon thought, was his own fault. He could still see the line of code in his head. Would probably see it behind his closed eyelids until the day he died.

Waylon reached for his pockets, felt the outline of a key inside the right one.

“Yeah,” he said, tongue sliding through a thin layer of blood.

Eddie nodded, then strode towards Waylon.

“You will _never_ ,” he said, foot reared back, the tip of his shoe striking Waylon in the stomach, hard enough for the computer tech to dry heave. “... _touch me_ …” Another sharp kick. “... _again_. Understand?”

The pain of his contracting stomach was overwhelming. Waylon rolled onto his back, let the sickness of it wash through him. Felt a smile crack his bloody lips.

Couldn’t help himself.

“Thought you _liked_ boys.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, with implication, a cruel hint that offered ignorance of Eddie’s mutilating crimes, while still heightening them. Making them known. Making Gluskin face it.

He waited for the next blow. _Wanted_ it, even. Pain was predictable. Pain was what he deserved, in droves.

But when he shifted his gaze from the ceiling to Gluskin’s face, he was greeted with the sight of a bright blush staining the man’s cheeks. Averted attention. Creased brows.

Waylon had the intense sensation of hitting a nail on the head.

Shit.

Did he just—

_Shit_.


	5. Orientation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while to figure out the direction of this chapter, and then a little longer to write it all out. Sorry for the wait, everyone. Hope you enjoy!

"I didn't—uh, I didn't mean it like. Like _that_." Waylon stumbled over his faux pas, but Gluskin was trapped inside his own skull.

_Fucking rapist pig_. The words rang in Eddie’s head, made his insides squirm. He hadn’t— _surely_ he hadn’t? The idea had never crossed his mind before. Usually, when he awoke from his haze, the only thing he saw was a mutilated body. He’d never caught himself with his pants down.

But Waylon had snapped by immeasurable means, and though he desperately wanted to attribute it to the inherent horrors found within the asylum itself, there was no denying how pointed the man’s rage had been. How its sharp direction had been turned towards him. Like he’d mangled Waylon in some sickeningly familiar way.

Eddie thought of his uncle’s face. The pockmarks that lined his chin, bled into the rough scratch of stubble. Like the sensation of a wire scrubber rubbing across his childhood skin.

The thought that he’d … _done that_ made him want to retch. That he’d violated someone in such an intrinsic manner. 

There were few things Eddie felt for. In the long run, most complications were a result of character, or completely nonsensical to begin with. Dead relative? People die. Someone out to eat you? Kill them first. He didn’t believe in sympathy, couldn’t even stroll through the same neighborhood as empathy.

But sexual violation?

( _I’d never let anything happen to our children_.) The words buzzed through his head, an electric deja vu. ( _Not like—_ )

Rape was a veritable _insult_. It was so far removed from his nature, so intrinsic to the monsters that haunted his nightmares.

He wanted to deny it. Waylon was still on his back, bloody and beaten. He wanted to slit the man’s throat and bleed out the lies.

Everything felt hazy. Different than the buzz that blocked out the rest of the world. Eddie could feel his heart thump heavily in his chest, thought it might rip out of him and race away. Panic. It gnawed at his bones. Made him jittery. Made the world tilt at a subtle angle, not enough to make him fall, but enough to make him stumble.

The inherent exhaustion after one of his bouts of mania was getting to him. Limbs heavy. Knees weak.

_Rape_.

(The slide of familial hands down his bare torso, fingers that danced along his hip. _Stay still_ and _be a good boy_. The heat of it. The grip. The gnawing shame.)

He couldn’t convince Waylon to stay, not if his assumptions were true. Wouldn’t _want_ to convince him, the memory of his transgression like a blemish on the younger man’s skin. A reminder.

An embarrassment.

But he also couldn’t leave without him. Didn’t have the mental capacity to handle his own psychoses. Not after the Engine had accelerated them.

He needed Waylon.

Couldn’t even broach the subject, as tongue-tied as he was.

So he stepped closer to the other’s prone body, instead. Offered his hand, eyes trained on one of Cellblock B’s empty walls. Ground his back teeth together, because he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t get his throat to cough up a single syllable, not yet. Not while he drowned in the memory of his monsters. Not while he choked on the possibility of his sins (their multiplicity a vague number in his head, like light years compressed until they bore a tangible understanding).

Waylon’s palm was heavy in his hand. Warm.

Shaking.

_Fucking ra—_

Eddie curled his fingers, pulled the man up until he could sway on his own two feet.

Couldn’t meet Waylon’s eyes. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Which, logically, was completely unnecessary. It was silly for Eddie to feel bad. Waylon had been warned of his uncontrollable impulses. Had agreed to a partnership despite the impending threat. It wasn’t as if Eddie had portrayed himself as anything less than mentally compromised. Waylon had seen the gymnasium, the mutilated bodies. Had spoken to The Groom, knew of that warped vision’s intentions, knew that Eddie was helpless to the bulbous inner cancer that engulfed him in an ocean of white noise.

Waylon was perfectly aware of the risks. It was Waylon’s fault that he—

Except, maybe, in that bigger picture that slumped together like wet pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Waylon really hadn’t known the extent of Eddie’s trauma. That maybe a few puzzle pieces had clicked into place, but the outline was still missing and the colors had bled together.

They’d known each other for a handful of hours. Enough time to know about thirty-eight. And green. And Sady.

But not Abraham. Not Anthony. Not Margie, or skinning a deer for its hide, or wide fields in an isolated valley, or all the questions Eddie had, all the _mommy, why did God kill Mrs. Homes?_ or _it’s just a book, why can’t I read a book, why can’t I—_

And all of that wouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if Eddie was out to make friends, had no desire to garner sympathy. Not when the only goal was escape.

But if Waylon had known, maybe he would’ve had the _option_ to make better choices.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been—

_Rapist pig._

Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered at all.

But Eddie still felt sick. Like some carnivorous animal was chewing on his organs in a glorious display of mastication. Eating away at his insides. Leisurely.

When Waylon jerked his hand away, it took Eddie a moment to realize their fingers had still been locked together. That he’d been so entrenched in his own thoughts, he’d completely ignored the world around him. The man still shivering at his side. Patients frozen in the furthest corners of the room.

He was still frozen when the computer tech walked away, thought it might be better if Waylon left, that maybe Eddie deserved to die there, trapped within the walls that took his crazy and made it crazier.

Eddie moved when Waylon strode past his shoulder, kept his distance. But his eyes trailed behind, caught on the pale pink that rode up the back of the computer tech’s ears. Followed the line of his shoulder, muscles pulling beneath thick fabric, arms outstretched, reaching towards the bloody mess of The Groom’s latest victim.

Eddie was staring.

Fucking hell, he was staring.

“Benny,” Waylon said. He reached out, checked the man’s pulse.

Eddie turned his head to the side, let his attention drift towards farther corners of the room. Couldn’t lock eyes with another patient, because they scuttled closer to flat cement walls when his gaze passed them by. He could practically smell their terror, that bile-sick regurgitation of fear. Another time, he might’ve basked in it. There was nothing like the poignant realization that you were the apex predator in the room. 

But Benny’s slick breathing rattled around in his head, Waylon’s soft noises of concern. It left him hollow, shaken.

Eddie was a monster. He knew that already.

_Oh, the things you’ve done._

But the degree of his monstrosities surprised him. He didn’t think— He hadn’t known he was capable of such things. Didn’t realize something so insidious was hidden inside of him.

_They’re a sin, darling._

He had hoped—

He’d hoped he was better than that.

Better than _them_.

“Eddie,” Waylon said from across the room. Eddie was jarred back into reality, jerked his head to the side. Met Waylon’s eyes.

And _blushed_.

No. No no no. Fuck that.

The urge to rub the back of his neck overtook him. He resisted. Couldn’t show weakness. Not in a room full of other crazies. The heat of his face was shameful, made him want to crawl into a corner and seep into the wall.

Was it guilt?

Waylon seemed to notice. His eyes scrunched up at the corners, like a smile, but his lips pulled down. It was an odd combination, one that made the blonde look too old and too naive.

The computer technician didn't say anything, thankfully. Only gave Eddie that look, then dropped what he'd intended to say earlier, his attention held by Benny, briefly.

Eddie was exhausted, felt like he'd run a marathon, or scaled the walls of Mount Massive with nothing but stubborn determination. He had to keep going. But he wasn't sure how to do that.

Waylon approached. Long strides, no hesitance. There was something about his demeanor that hit Eddie right in the chest. Something about the blood leaking from between a split lip, the cold in his eyes.

Eddie hadn't noticed his own horrendous posture, how he was slumped over and breathing hard, until Waylon stood before him and they met eye-to-eye.

"You're fucked up," Waylon said. " _Really_ fucked up. And we're gonna talk about it. But right now—" He grabbed Eddie's arm, gave a rough pull. "—you're taking me to the exit. No more detours."

**************

Special forces were everywhere. Murkoff goons. Assault rifles. The asylum howled out ringing gunfire, loud booms down dark hallways, shouts, the wet slap of fresh corpses falling to the floor.

Waylon focused on the back of Gluskin's neck as they darted down endless halls.

They were running out of time.

Someone had already set fire to the asylum. Waylon thought the distant image of a burning cross was an accurate emblem for Mount Massive's immense amount of unprecedented fuckery. He could've waxed poetic about it, in a way that would've instigated Lisa's remorseless teasing.

The thought of her warmed him.

He wanted to see her again.

He _was going to see her again_.

A sudden tug at his arm drew Waylon out of his thoughts.

They were back in the Administration Block, the whole place looking wickedly gunned down. Bullet holes in dark mahogany doors, like shooting up inanimate objects had some inherent purpose, some therapeutic effect for the gunmen responsible.

Eddie pulled him into an empty room, shut the swiss cheese door, then leaned on it. Arms crossed. Pointedly determined.

"I thought," Waylon said, voice seething, "I told you no detours."

"I need to see it," Eddie replied, curt and all business.

"See what?"

"Your camcorder."

The hairs on the back of Waylon's neck bristled.

"Like hell you do."

The camera had become more than just a camera, to Waylon. It was his lifeline, his bright eyes in pitch dark, his reason for doing what he did, his _purpose_. With all the footage he'd gathered, all the suffering of the patients, the impossible madness they'd been strong-armed into acting out, Waylon would have just as easily ripped out his own heart and handed it over instead.

"I need to see _it_ ," Eddie said again, holding out a hand. "What I did to you. I need to know."

Hearing him say it out loud made every synapse in Waylon's head go off like a car alarm.

So he wasn't denying it. Not even to himself.

Waylon wasn't prepared for that conversation. Not yet. He'd said he wanted to talk it out with Gluskin, sure, but the whole prospect of reliving that nightmare was giving him second thoughts.

"We don't have time," he said, making for the door.

Gluskin's broad body remained immobile.

"We're making time."

"Why do you care?" Waylon felt frantic. He was trapped. Again. "It doesn't change anything. The deal still stands."

Eddie's look was impossible to define. But if Waylon was tested on it, he'd probably say something like _distant_ or _cold_ or ... or _sad_.

"It changes everything," Gluskin said, and the hollow ring in his voice made Waylon pause. He continued, very quietly, "I've done unspeakable things. Without thought of guilt. But the things you claim I've done to you ..." 

He looked away, chin held high.

"They aren't worthy of help. Or mercy. Or life."

Waylon wasn't in the mood to talk it out.

"You ... you've literally sewn a decapitated head inside a man's stomach, and you draw the line at _rape_?"

"Who would we be, without our lines?"

Waylon wanted to tell him a lot of things. That they didn’t have time. That it didn’t matter. That Gluskin’s fucked up sense of morals was so far removed from normal, it was making his head spin.

Instead, he flipped open the camera screen, rewound a few minutes of footage, turned so Eddie could watch, and hit play.

Memories flooded Waylon’s mind. It was one thing to think about what had happened to him, but an entirely different thing to watch it from a third party perspective. His naked body was splayed across a wooden table. He could smell the blood, the putrid stench of piss and bile. The whirring saw keened high and loud, peaking the camera’s microphone, turning shouts into static. He could feel every blow Eddie landed. His ribs ached in sympathy. He could feel the manic heat of it, the press of Gluskin against his backside, how hot he was, how _hard_ he was.

It ended with a struggle, with Waylon snatching the camera and flipping the screen closed.

Waylon turned the playback off, switched it back to record mode before closing the camcorder and lowering it to his side.

When he glanced up at the man next to him, he saw the flush on Gluskin’s ears. Embarrassment. Guilt. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was the most telling emotion Waylon had ever seen on the sociopath’s face.

“And there you have it,” Waylon said, taking a step back. Another. Another. He felt frantic again.

Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard.

Waylon turned around, stuffed the camcorder into the baggy pockets of his patient uniform. Gripped the wooden desk in front of him. Squeezed until his fingernails bent slightly at the ends.

“It was Tony.”

“Huh?” Waylon kept his voice low, his body turned away.

“The things I … said. It was Anthony.”

“What, you’ve gone and named your alter ego? Got a whole playpen of imaginary friends in there?” Waylon tapped the side of his head. Still couldn’t bring himself to face the other man in the room head on.

“My father,” Eddie supplied gently, and that did make Waylon turn.

He stared at the patient, wide-eyed, puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

“Wait, you—”

“We should go.”

“It … that happened to you?”

“We’re running out of time.”

Waylon strode forward, pressed his index finger firmly into Eddie’s chest.

“ _You’re_ the one who wanted to talk it out.” His hand fell to his side. “So let’s talk it out.”

Eddie looked like he was about to jump out the window. Or set himself on fire. Anything to backtrack the mistake he’d made by trying to shed some light on his transgressions.

“Tony was your dad, and he … he—”

“Yes.”

Eddie’s voice was clipped, colder than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

“H-how? How could he do something like that?”

A very intrusive thought flooded Waylon’s mind, then. He saw his sons, tried to imagine taking advantage of them like that, but couldn’t even form the idea, couldn’t even think about it through the shudders that wracked his body.

“He had help.”

Another short statement edged in iron.

Waylon looked up, saw Gluskin’s eyes averted to somewhere across the room, beyond the walls. Somewhere very far away.

He thought, suddenly, about his first taste of Eddie’s madness. About being trapped in that small room, only a few handful of hours ago, Gluskin reaching through the doorway, arm wedged between a bookcase and the wall. Thought about their brief conversation, about Chris stomping closer, Eddie on the ground writhing in pain.

Thought about Sadie.

“Your uncle had a farm,” he said. “Abraham.”

Eddie was already stiff as a board, but the mention of that name made him brittle.

“My _uncle_ ,” Eddie said, voice less human, more animal, “had a sick mind and too much time on his hands.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Eddie. It—”

“It was.”

Waylon paused, the air ripped from his throat.

“Don’t say that.”

“It was my fault,” Eddie continued, like he hadn’t heard him. “For being—”

“ _No_. There’s no excuse for what they did to you. It _wasn’t you_.” Waylon didn’t have a lot of experience in this arena, hadn’t worked closely with people who’d been sexually violated. But he had his boys. He had Lisa. And the very _idea_ that they’d blame themselves if something like that ever happened to them … It made him sick to his stomach.

“It _was_ me. For being one of _them_. For liking what I like. For … for …”

“For being gay?”

It was quiet, after that. Eddie looked flushed from head to toe, aghast that someone had said it, that someone had laid it out on the table in such a clear, undeniable way.

Part of Waylon wished he could eat the words up. It felt like he’d squeezed a tube of toothpaste and had little chance of pushing its contents back inside. Given that it was pretty much impossible to rewind his life and start from about ten seconds prior, he decided to roll with it.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Eddie. I don’t know what they told you, I don’t know how you grew up, but … but a lot of people, myself included, would’ve had them _lynched_ for hurting you like that. There’s nothing wrong with liking who you like.”

Waylon couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He’d thought about the possibility of one or both of his sons coming out to him. Him and Lisa both. Eddie felt his abusers were justified, simply because of who he was? The computer technician couldn’t fathom the betrayal his sons would feel if he ever—

He stepped forward before he could think about it. Wrapped one arm around Eddie’s torso, like he did when Liam begged to be held. Cupped his hand behind Gluskin’s head and pulled the man’s face to his shoulder, like he did when Spencer, teary-eyed, brought home a bad grade on a test he’d worked so hard on.

Waylon was shorter than the beast of a psycho wrapped up in his arms. But in that moment, Eddie felt incredibly small.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Waylon said, cooing gently into the other man’s ear. His voice had taken on that fatherly tone, the one reserved for distraught children lost in the swell of their own problems.

“I almost did it to you.” Eddie’s voice was muffled in the computer tech’s shoulder.

“But you didn’t,” Waylon reassured. “You didn’t.”

Gluskin stiffened at that, and before Waylon could react, he was pushed away so hard he landed heavily against the desk on the other side of the room.

“But I _would have_.”

Eddie was crouched low, breathing heavily. Flustered and flushed.

Maybe Waylon was selfish. It was those if-then statements again. If he showed kindness, then he expected gratitude in return.

“The fuck is your problem?” Waylon said, voice raised higher than he would’ve liked. “You say it’s your fault you were … you were raped. Then you act like it’s your fault you almost did it to me. So, what? If I was gay, it’d make it okay to violate me?”

“No.” Cold again. Eddie had straightened up, calm mask back in place. “There’s no excuse for it.”

“Then _don’t excuse your family_.”

“Do you always view the world in absolutes?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense!”

“I hurt you,” Eddie said, leaning heavily against the door. “Why are you trying to deny that? Aren’t you angry?”

It was Waylon’s turn to breathe heavy. Big, heaving breaths that made his rib cage strain. He gripped the edge of the desk again, dug his nails into it until he thought he might break them.

“I’m not angry,” he said, voice incredibly low. “I’m fucking _furious_.”

He saw the confusion written on Eddie’s face for barely a second, before it was swept under a much more neutral expression.

“You’re a sick fuck,” Waylon continued. He didn’t usually cuss so much, but his nerves made expletives pour from his mouth. “And what you did was … it was wrong. It was _so wrong_ , in so many ways. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around it. What I saw. The bodies— the … the gym. I’m sure as hell not trying to defend it. Not what you did to them. And not what you tried to do to me. I just—”

He paused. Listened to the distant sound of gunshots. Thought he smelled sulfur, even, because he was pretty well convinced he’d somehow stepped through the gates of Hell.

“Eddie,” Waylon said, trying to quell the static rising in his brain, the deep roil of anger that threatened to burn him up from the inside out. “I think I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life. But that doesn’t excuse what Murkoff did to you. That doesn’t mean they should get away with it. And that doesn’t mean you deserve to _die_. Because ten seconds with you was all I needed to know you were fucked all to hell. But I chose to stick around. We’re getting out of here. We’re getting out of here together, okay?”

Eddie was very still for a very long time. And though something in his posture still hinted at confusion, he gave a quick nod.

The patient turned around, flung open the door, and strode out.

**************

Reprehensibly illogical.

That’s what Waylon was.

The little tech boy thought he had a grasp on who Eddie was. Thought he could poke and prod his psyche and categorize every anomaly into clearly marked files.

Maybe it was petulant, but Eddie didn’t want to be easy. He didn’t want to be ‘understood’.

He wanted to be difficult.

They stood at the top of the stairs on the second floor of the Administration Block. Through crinkled glass windows, Mount Massive’s large wooden doors were flung wide open. The entrance. The exit.

The end.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Eddie saw daylight. Golden beams of dusk beckoned to him, their tendrils soft enough to floor him. He could almost smell fresh air.

Waylon nearly ran into his back. He heard the other man’s sharp intake of breath, could practically feel relief flood through him.

They’d made it.

There was something swelling behind Eddie’s eyelids. Blistering Rorschach images tried to push through, but after having ended one bout of mania so soon, his madness had little strength to overtake him. At worst, it felt like a light tap against his temple.

He crouched, inched down each step one-by-one, held one finger to his lips and turned to Waylon in quiet warning. On the bottom step, one quick glance around each corner told him all he needed to know.

The way was clear. Eerily so.

He straightened up and strode forward. Waited for madness to overtake him. Waited for some half-crazed variant to come barreling out of nowhere and shank him for good measure. Waited for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Anything seemed more believable than the thought that he’d made it.

“Waylon Park. And … my, my, is that Mr. Gluskin?”

Ah, there was the other shoe. Dropped firmly into place at the front door, in the form of one Jeremy Blaire.

Eddie immediately sized him up. He didn’t look particularly threatening, slouched on the floor like that, leaning heavily into a pool of his own blood.

Still, the sight of his rat face, his slick words, the memory of him peering through the small glass window of Eddie’s holding cell, of his slippery smirk when Eddie was manhandled into a small round contraption, tubes fed down his throat—

It ripped a snarl from Eddie’s chest.

“Blaire,” he said, left arm thrown to the side to keep Waylon from advancing. He didn’t like Jeremy’s toothy smile. Didn’t trust it. “Mind stepping aside? You’re blocking the door and it’s a little rude.”

The businessman blinked up at him, tilted his head just _so_.

“Well, aren’t we the sane one?” he said, in that way that made Eddie want to rip his teeth out. Then, “What happened to your face? I’ve heard they make ointments for that.”

Stalling. Eddie had the incredibly intense feeling that Blaire was stalling.

They needed to move, quick.

“Nice catching up,” Eddie said, ushering Waylon towards the other large door, the small space that Blaire wasn’t currently taking up.

“I expected you’d survive, Gluskin. You’re too crazy to go down easy. But little Way-Way here?”

The demeaning pet name was annoying, but something Eddie could handle.

He tried to ignore the fact that Blaire’s insult to Waylon made him feel … something. Protective, maybe. Waylon was annoying, weak, pathetic. Hated his guts. But he’d helped, in a way that no one else had. Like a friend. Or a loyal dog.

Yeah, it was definitely easier to think of Waylon as a dog.

Waylon balked at the name, somewhere between embarrassed and aghast. “Way … Way?”

Blaire didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

“I believe I asked you to move,” Eddie said. “Rather politely, I might add.” He kept his arm up as they inched closer. He didn’t like the look of Jeremy. Didn’t trust him to die quietly. As they drew nearer, he noticed the metallic glint of something sharp held in the man’s hand. His eyes trained on it.

“Oh,” Jeremy said, following Eddie’s gaze. “This? Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to attack people moving in groups.” He dropped the knife, let it clatter into his own pool of blood. “So,” he said, almost conversationally, “you two are butt-buddies now, huh?”

_That_ , Eddie realized, already halfway to Jeremy’s prone form, was an insult he couldn’t handle. Not so soon after his heart-to-heart with Waylon.

One, two, three punches directly to Blaire’s face, and Eddie drew back, snatched up the knife for good measure. He thought about putting a few holes in the man, but realized that would end his suffering far too soon. So he took a few steps back, returned to Waylon’s side.

Blaire looked _pissed_ , his face now spouting more blood than the wound in his side.

“ _Jesus_ , Eddie,” Waylon said, but there was a feathery lightness to his voice, and when Eddie glanced over, he saw a grin splitting the man’s face. He looked absolutely giddy that Eddie had given Blaire a broken nose and a wickedly black eye.

“Good talk,” Eddie said, voice cheerily directed towards the businessman.

He crossed the threshold, Waylon in tow, and felt warm sunlight strike his face for the first time in a handful of years.

Eddie allowed himself a moment to bask in it. One indescribably small minute, before gunfire clipped it short and he ran at breakneck speed towards the front gates.

They were open. Open. Wide and inviting and beckoning him past.

Waylon took a small detour to a red jeep parked at the entrance. Tore it apart looking for a key, but the ping of bullets striking the front bumper startled him away.

“Just run, _run_ ,” Eddie said, grabbing Waylon’s arm and pulling him away. A bullet whizzed past his ear. Too close.

They disappeared into the Colorado wilderness, and didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this definitely isn't the end. Really, it's just the beginning.


	6. Flammable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you again for all of the wonderful comments! I nearly split my face with an Eddie-worthy grin reading what all of you have said. I've been lax in responding to comments, but I'll get to every one of them soon. Hope you enjoy this new adventure our boys are going on!
> 
> Had [this picture](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/97/MtElbert_TurquoiseLake.jpg) in mind for the location.

An immense fog rolled in not long after sunset, and though Waylon had at first cursed their misfortune and the many, many roots he’d stumbled over, he grew to appreciate the amount of cover it provided them.

The gunfire had stopped hours ago. He could no longer hear the sound of heavy boots thudding through the underbrush.

Still, they had ran.

Ran, until oxygen was a distant memory to Waylon’s lungs, until the harsh slap of low-hanging tree branches had reddened his face like cat scratches, until the strain on his legs made them hot and useless, until his fingertips, his ears, his nose was numb from chill.

Scaling the mountain had been a downhill battle. It was a steady incline that threatened to drop him at any moment. But the change in altitude had lifted the fog, slightly, and when they finally broke the tree line and Waylon collapsed from exhaustion, he had a clear view of exactly where they were, moonlight hanging down in a weighty gibbous.

His knees dug into the rocky shore of a surprisingly familiar lake.

“Do you have any idea how far we’ve run?” he said, gasping in great mouthfuls of air.

Eddie was doubled over next to him, elbows on his knees, gulping in the same fish-out-of-water manner. When his body seemed satisfied that it wasn’t going to suffocate, he lifted his head and looked around.

“A lake?”

“We—” _He doesn’t know about Lisa._ “I timed it, once. Well, not from here, from Leadville. Thought about moving there when I got the contract. This is—”

He took a deep breath in, let it out slowly. His heart was pounding.

“Turquoise Lake.” Waved behind him, without turning. “Mount Massive’s back there. Mount Elbert’s the pretty one on the left, a little further away. Used to camp out here, for the view.”

“Alone?”

Waylon thought of his sons running amok, crashing into others’ campsites for offered meals of fresh caught fish and store-bought sweets.

“Yeah, alone.”

Eddie shot him a meaningful look, one blistered eyebrow raised, but dropped the subject.

“We need shelter,” he said instead. “It’ll get cold soon. Any ideas?”

Waylon rose from the ground, dusted off his knees, and looked around. Tried to orient himself. They were on the southern side of the lake. Recognized it immediately. His family had stayed on the opposite end at first, basking in the view of towering mountains slashed across the sky and spread wide beyond the lake. But after realizing that nearly every tourist and camper in the area preferred the same view they did, he’d taken to setting up camp on the southern end. Just as beautiful, just as pristine, and much more quiet.

“Yeah, there’s a little oasis we—” _Don’t tell him about Lisa. Don’t tell him about the kids._ “—can stay at. This way.”

*******

Waylon was _not_ staring at Eddie’s shoulders.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t watching the way hard muscle bunched beneath his shirt every time the man twisted a stick between two palms. Eddie was in the middle of starting a fire. He had reservations at first, thought it would be best to blend into their surroundings. But they had secreted themselves away in an uninhabited little alcove, backs pressed against the bottom of a sheer cliff. Any light would be eaten up by the sharp image of towering pines. The lake fed off into a river, and the river pooled into a small, still watering hole. A lip in the cliffside provided a minute amount of shelter, and the water looked clean, absolutely pristine.

It was picturesque. Waylon had always loved Colorado’s wilderness, its stark blues and greens, the purity of it nothing short of a photographer’s wet dream.

It was beautiful.

Yet, he was still absolutely _not_ staring at Eddie’s back. It might’ve been something close to a dawning realization. That he’d crossed paths with a psychopath that could’ve ripped him to shreds without a second thought. That the power in those rough hands was enough to squeeze the life out of him. That Gluskin had every opportunity to end him, that they were out now, that Waylon didn’t have a use anymore, that there was nowhere to run, no place to hide.

Or it could have been gratitude. A delayed appreciation for his own choice of guide. That Eddie had guarded him because the sociopath was strong. Had led him, because Eddie was smart. Had navigated the halls of the asylum without fear, with determination, with an unshakable will, while Waylon trailed along hyped up on nothing more than pure adrenaline.

Waylon wouldn’t have made it out alone.

“Eddie,” he said, pressing his back into cold rock. His legs were splayed out in front of him, and he’d been kneading his calves for the past half hour, trying to curtail the impending ache in the morning. He still wasn’t wearing shoes, and he knew his feet were going to have a nice long talk about it in the morning. “Thank you.”

A few yards ahead, a small trail of smoke was wisping over Eddie’s shoulders. He didn’t pause in his motions.

“For what?”

Waylon wanted to stand up, stride over, and smack Eddie in the back of the head. His protesting legs stopped him.

Every interaction with Eddie was difficult, and part of him prefered the crazier version, because at least The Groom wasn’t so demeaning, wasn’t such an _ass_. If you ignored the whole genital mutilation thing, and … and … 

After quelling the urge to inflict damage, Waylon took a deep breath.

“For saving my life. Getting me out of there. Thank you.”

A small orange glow sparked to life. Gluskin reached for the pile of kindling he’d gathered earlier, nursed the fire to bigger, better proportions. The heat of it drew Waylon closer, crawling forward on his hands and knees. He collapsed on his stomach a couple feet away, head pillowed by his arms, and moaned out the most pathetic noise of comfort. He didn’t even care. It felt like years since he’d been so warm.

Gluskin stood up, abruptly. It took Waylon a moment to peel one eyelid open and look at the other man.

“Come on, sit down. Enjoy the fire you made.”

Eddie bent over and started to tear a thick branch off one of the fallen trees scattered around the area. It was a snag, a tree stripped of its nutrients by bark beetles, that once stood tall and dead, but had recently been felled by a sharp wind, or a heavy snow.

He tugged on it, muscles straining, teeth squeezed tight together. It was practically hollowed out, and not particularly thick to begin with, so a few minutes of effort ripped it messily from the trunk.

“I need to hunt,” he said, short and gruff, like those weren’t the words he wanted to say at all. He ripped off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his shirt (it was practically torn to pieces, at this point), grabbed the knife he’d pilfered from Blaire, and started tying it firmly to the end of his branch.

“Take a break?” Waylon suggested, opening both his eyes fully, but still refusing to get off the ground.

Eddie did pause. For half a second. He tied off his wrappings and tested the heft of his new weapon.

“I haven’t eaten in three days, Waylon.”

“You— _what_?”

“The Engine. Have you ever tried feeding a tube down a man’s throat on a full stomach?” No eye contact, but Gluskin’s voice was simple, almost airy. “They did. Messy stuff. So it started out as a practicality. But I got _unruly_ , and they thought it’d make a fun little punishment.”

Waylon’s belly chose that moment to growl, almost in sympathy. He hadn’t eaten in a day, nothing compared to Eddie’s unwilling fast, so the noise, loud in the quiet of moonlight, was embarrassing.

“Okay, well,” he struggled to his hands and knees. “I’ll come with you. There aren’t a lot of fish in this area. You’ll have to go to the river.”

Eddie stopped him with a glance.

“I’ll be fine alone.”

“Come on, I’ll help out.”

“You’ll scare them off, with all the banging around you do.”

The comment was petty, and Waylon recognized that immediately. He thought he did a pretty good job of keeping quiet. That was his _thing_ , the one trait that helped him survive in Mount Massive. Eddie obviously had a chip on his shoulder, wanted to find any excuse to insult Waylon, whether the reasoning was justified or not.

Gluskin didn’t say anything else, only turned and walked away, his sharp figure blending with the pines.

*******

Waylon knew he was dreaming. It was a simple enough tell. Lisa was in the kitchen whipping up some new invention for dinner, and Gluskin was standing next to her, in an apron.

Despite the multitude of things that were wrong with that picture, the blonde ended up focusing on the apron more than anything else. White, trimmed in red lace, with big bubble lettering that said Kiss The Cook.

Eddie had a smile on his face, spread wide and _human_ looking.

Lisa smiled up at Gluskin, eyes crinkled in delight. She prodded his chest with a wooden spoon, smeared a small stain of batter onto the apron. Said something, but it was garbled and undecipherable. She looked happy. She looked so, _so_ happy that there was a psychopathic murderer helping her with dinner.

They turned to Waylon in tandem, beckoned him over with open expressions. He was propelled forward not of his own volition, some strange dream mechanic taking control of his actions. Lisa on his left, her hand rubbing at the small of his back. Eddie on his right, arm slung lazily over his shoulder. 

Terror lodged in Waylon’s throat at Gluskin’s touch. He felt like he was one small hair from snapping in half. But Lisa kept stroking his back, pressing her thumb into stiff points, drawing the tension out of him.

Their mouths opened, and Waylon heard rushing water—streams, rivers, waterfalls pouring like white noise into his head.

Lisa pressed closer, her body soft and malleable, dark skin making his pale even paler in contrast. She swiped the wooden spoon against his lower lip, gave him a cheeky smile. Waylon dipped his tongue out, tasted the light sweetness of it. Her fingertips curled in the waist of his jeans, drew him closer until their fronts were pressed flush to one another.

God, how he’d _missed_ her. Her soft hair, falling in curly waves against her shoulders. Her wicked grin, all teeth and playfulness. That assured confidence that made him want to bite into the warmth of her pulse just to feel the strength of her heart.

Waylon’s own heart flew into a panic, all flutters and worried beating, when Eddie pressed into him from behind. The heft of the other man was overwhelming, his shoulders eclipsing Waylon’s slighter frame, hands resting comfortably on his hips.

It felt like a cage. Made dread boil up from his stomach and plaster itself like acid onto the back of his throat.

But Eddie’s hands were soft. Firm. More steady than stifling.

Lisa leaned in, buried her face against Waylon’s neck. Breathed deep, like she’d missed his skin, his scent, missed every part of him. It upended him. The intimacy of it. Made him tremble from head to toe, like electricity was running through his veins, like the buzz of her contact had jumpstarted a heart he hadn’t realized was dormant.

When Gluskin placed a rough palm against Waylon’s face and turned his head to the side, those jolts of electricity set his skin on fire. Their mouths collided, Eddie’s tongue swiping away the rest of the sweet batter clinging to his lower lip, and Waylon _moaned_ —

“ _Dinner_ ,” came a rough voice, jolting Waylon from sleep, “is served.”

Waylon bolted upright, blinked heavily against the brightness of the fire. His mouth was still open, still formed around a long, low sound of pleasure. He clamped it shut the second he regained consciousness, then tried very, very hard to melt into the forest floor.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but with four fish gutted, cooked, and laying flat against a rock, he figured sleep had knocked him out cold. He stared at the meal, because he could feel Gluskin staring at him, and the thought of making eye contact had him reeling with embarrassment. 

“Thanks,” he said into the palms of his hands, then stood up and walked towards the rock.

Problem number one. Eddie was sitting crosslegged on the other side of the low boulder.

Problem number two. The fish was fresh from the fire, too hot to grab with his bare hands.

All Waylon wanted to do was slink off into some dark, secluded corner of the forest, eat a decent meal for the first time in what felt like forever, and die. Didn’t matter that he’d survived the horrors of Mount Massive. Didn’t matter that he’d barely made it out with all his limbs intact. Death, at the moment, sounded like an incredibly pleasant passtime.

He’d just had a weird sex dream about Eddie fucking Gluskin.

A weird sex _threesome_ dream, starring his wife of seven years, and a crazed murderer straight from the loony bin.

And it wouldn’t have been so bad, except he felt tight all over, and flushed in places he didn’t want to think about.

Waylon forced himself to sit down on the other side of the rock. Forced himself to tear off a line of flesh from the fish and pop it into his mouth. Forced himself to look at Eddie.

_I hate him_.

He mulled that thought over in his head for a minute. Chewed slowly.

He thought of it in all sorts of ways, with all sorts of inflections. Thought about the panic that seized his stomach every time Gluskin looked his way. Thought about his sore ribs and busted up face, _a la_ Gluskin’s fists and feet. He thought about what had happened in that room, on that wooden table, the blind thumping terror that had swelled his brain and spilled out insane pleas from his mouth like so much foamy pus. He’d felt like a different person, then. Begging Eddie to kiss him. Like maybe his brief exposure to the Engine had torn something down in his head, had built something sharp and _wrong_ back up.

_I. Hate. Him._ Waylon thought the words again, slowly. Silently curled his tongue in his closed mouth, licking imaginary syllables.

He didn’t feel anything.

Waylon grabbed another piece of fish, slid it into his mouth.

When he tried to think about what had happened, about his arms and legs bound up on musty wood, about Eddie pressed tight against him, he realized how fuzzy everything was. That he saw it more from the camera’s perspective, than from his own. That his memories were sharper when he thought about replaying the footage for Eddie to look at, and when he tried to grasp information from his personal experience with the situation, it was all …

Static.

Sour.

The first thump of a headache, stretched into a constant swell.

Oh, he could _feel_ it. Could still sense it, still taste blood in his mouth, could still hear the whine of that saw. But there was a disconnect between his sensory experience, and his interior experience.

He remembered skin and blood scraped roughly beneath his fingernails. He remembered the struggle. The violence of it.

But it felt distant. Disconnected in a way that he couldn’t quite put his thumb on.

_I hate him_ , he thought again. Still nothing.

Everything in his head told him he should be enraged. He’d told Eddie he was furious. And that was true, to an extent. But his fury felt hollow, splintered off into a million different directions. More mad at _concepts_ than _things_.

Eddie saved his life.

Eddie tried to rape him.

He’d failed in his attempt, but it was the principle of the matter.

But when Waylon thought about it, thought about Mount Massive, thought about Blaire’s slimy face—

_I hate **them**_ , he thought, and something sparked deep in his gut.

“Hey,” Waylon said. He finished up his first fish, started on the second.

He was still staring at Eddie. They hadn’t broken eye contact, but Waylon had zoned out enough to completely disregard his surroundings.

“What I said earlier,” he continued, when Gluskin didn’t respond. “I didn’t mean it.”

He didn’t hate the patients. He couldn’t. Like some innate part of him made him incapable of holding them entirely accountable.

He hated Mount Massive. He hated Murkoff. He hated Jeremy Blaire, with his _stupid_ attempt at intimidating puns. He hated the doctor who’d strapped him to a chair and licked his ear.

But he didn’t hate Eddie.

Because the Engine had taken something bad, and made it monstrous.

Because Murkoff had taken someone in pain, and made him do something so far removed from his desires that he hardly considered himself _worthy_ of survival.

And that was fucked up.

Eddie didn’t seem to understand. He quirked an eyebrow (some incessant habit, Waylon noticed), but didn’t question it.

That suited Waylon. He still had to think about it, really. Make sure he wasn’t experiencing some messed up Stockholm Syndrome thing. But just saying it out loud brought some peace to his quarrelling thoughts.

“Thanks for the food,” Waylon said, digging into the other half of his meal, voice edging on playful. “Find any booze while you were out there?”

Eddie ate slowly. He was still on the first few bites of his fish. Waylon figured he’d have scarfed it all down by then, but realized, suddenly, that after days without food, a sudden influx wouldn’t sit well on his stomach. Eddie was controlling himself.

The comment made Eddie pause. Like he was considering it.

Waylon was about to explain his farfetched joke, when Gluskin reached into his pocket and pulled out a hefty flask.

“I—wait.”

Eddie unscrewed the cap, then sniffed it.

“Found it out there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction he’d gone. “Looks like a camper lost it.”

He held it out across the rock.

Waylon grabbed it, tentatively. Ignored the jolt he got when their fingers brushed.

He brought it to his nose and breathed in deep. Thrust it away when the smell made him gag.

“What _is_ that?” he asked. Eddie snatched up the bottle, stared at it for a moment, then took a big swig.

It was weird, to see such a large man curl in on himself so suddenly. Gluskin winced, bent over, and started coughing.

“Moonshine,” he said, patting his chest like he was trying to learn how to breathe again.

“Doesn’t that stuff make you go blind?”

Eddie tilted his head, considered the metal flask in his hand.

“It can, if it’s not made right,” he said, then tipped his head back and took another big gulp.

Waylon was halfway across the rock before he could think about it, arm outstretched.

“What’re you doing? Jesus, that might as well be gasoline!”

Eddie leaned back, looked up at Waylon, and gave a wicked smile.

“Would you like to get drunk, Waylon?” He shook the flask, like it’d make it more enticing.

“That’s a horrible idea.” Waylon sat back down.

“I think we have enough cause to celebrate.”

“We’re not out of the oven yet.”

“If we’re going to burn,” Eddie said, leaning in, “we might as well make ourselves more flammable.”

**************

The first time Eddie got drunk, he was fifteen. His father was a tailor, primarily, worked leather beneath his hands like a finely tuned instrument. But Anthony had his hobbies, and once Eddie turned fifteen, still young but wonderfully subjugated, he’d taught his son how to make some quality moonshine.

The last time Eddie got drunk, he was eighteen. A few months after his parents’ untimely deaths. A few months before his public defender forced him to plead insanity, and he was shipped off to his first sanatorium.

There weren’t many opportunities to get drunk in an asylum.

Which meant Eddie had gone through a twenty-year dry spell.

Which meant, in short, Eddie was a lightweight.

The incredible speed in which he’d gotten himself thoroughly smashed was surprising. The fact that it was moonshine didn’t help.

He thought, in hindsight, that maybe mixing mental illness with liquor wasn’t the best of ideas. And, far in the back of his head, he knew drinking on what was basically a starved stomach wasn’t that great of a plan, either.

But he was kind of sick of sobriety. It didn’t do anything nice for him.

It was because of this influx of liquid courage that he thought it was a rather _grand_ idea to open his mouth.

“We should play a game,” he said, shaking the bottle. It was about a quarter full, enough for a few more shots between the two of them. Something tame might not have had such a dramatic effect, but with liquor bordering on 120 proof filtering through his liver, a little went a long way.

Waylon, who was also thoroughly drunk, jumped on the idea.

“Never Have I Ever. Let’s do it. Hands up,” he said, lifting his arm.

Eddie hadn’t heard of it. Drinking games were common in his little hometown of Creede, but most of them involved playing cards, or some version of counting farm animals to pass the time.

He raised an eyebrow to show his confusion, tried not to think of how attuned Waylon must’ve been to his body language when the computer tech immediately picked up on the cue.

“Oh, okay, okay. It’s simple.”

Eddie didn’t stare at Waylon’s sharp jawline. Didn’t try to wade through the bright blue of his irises. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not at all.

“I say something I’ve never done before. If you’ve done it, you have to lower one of your fingers.” He wriggled all five digits for good measure. “Once you’ve made a fist, you have to take a shot.”

Eddie knew it wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t like over-sharing. It was annoying, completely unnecessary, and the thought of spreading his life out for everyone to see made heavy sickness settle in his stomach.

But Waylon looked excited. _Eager_. It was a difficult look to deny.

“Alright,” Eddie agreed, then lifted his hand.

Waylon had something in mind already. He blurted it out without a second thought.

“Never have I ever been admitted to an insane asylum.”

He grabbed his knees and leaned back, smiled big and bright.

Eddie raised his eyebrow again. It was turning out to be an effective means of communication.

It took Waylon a moment to get it. Realization dawned on his face like a sunrise whisking away darkness.

“Oh—wait, uh, _shit_.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes shifting from mischievous to timid. “Forgot about that one. Re-do?”

Eddie nodded. Waited.

“Uh. Hm. Never have I ever … owned a dog.”

Cheap shot. Eddie lowered a finger.

“Never have I ever…” The words felt heavy on his tongue. He’d never said those exact words in that exact sequence before, and he reflected on that, for a moment, on the satisfying sensation of saying something entirely new. “... owned a computer.”

Waylon shot him a look, half playful and half annoyed. He lowered a finger, continued, “Never have I ever lived on a farm.”

Another finger down. It didn’t take long for Eddie to start thinking about the strategy of the game. The more worldly the person, the easier it was to take them down. Since Eddie had been locked up for more than half his life, he figured he had a pretty good chance at winning.

He decided to go for the simple things. The little things that most people got to experience, but had been lacking in his own life.

For a moment, as drunk as he already was, over-sharing wasn’t a concern. He was in it to win.

“Never have I ever been enrolled in public school.”

Waylon lowered a finger, shot back with, “Never have I ever been enrolled in private school.”

Eddie kept his digits up.

“Never have I ever been to a bar,” he said.

Waylon lowered another finger. It looked like he’d caught on to Eddie’s game. He studied the sociopath for a minute, then said, quickly, “I’ve never stabbed a man.”

Gluskin’s eyes widened at that. His lips pulled up, amused, his smile almost gentle.

One finger down for Eddie. They were two-on-two. He liked a challenge.

“I’ve never eaten at a sit-down restaurant.”

When Waylon lowered his finger (one more to go), he twisted his lips down like he’d eaten something sour. He stared at Eddie for a long time. Contemplating how to win, probably. If he was being smart about it.

“You’ve never eaten at a restaurant?” the computer tech asked. Not a question detailed in the instructions. He might’ve been too drunk to follow the rules of his own game.

“It’s your turn,” Eddie reminded him.

A few seconds passed. Waylon looked strung tight like a cord about to snap.

“I’ve never…” he began, slowly. “I’ve never been in prison.”

Close, but not quite. Technically, Eddie had never been _incarcerated_ , per say. He’d spent his time inside maximum security facilities, certainly, but those were asylums for the criminally insane. Not exactly what Waylon was talking about.

Eddie kept two fingers up, then went for the jugular.

“Never have I ever been married.”

Waylon lowered his finger, clenched his fist, then thrust his hand to the ground. He looked like he made a mistake. Opened his mouth, but choked on sound.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he said stiffly.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Eddie replied, then, through a slight ray of light in the haze of his drunkenness, “Oh. You thought I didn’t know?”

Waylon looked incredibly uncomfortable. Like he was about to claw off his own skin. He jerked his head to the side, refused to meet Eddie’s eyes.

“You didn’t hide it very well.” Eddie tried to be soothing in his tone of voice. He wasn't really used to doing that, and honestly couldn’t bring to mind _why_ , exactly, he thought he should provide Waylon with any thread of comfort. But the moonshine was strong, and his voice pretty much manipulated itself. “All those awkward pauses in your sentences. And you were saying her name, earlier, in your sleep. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

It didn’t bring any comfort. Eddie saw it in the line of Waylon’s shoulders, how they hunched forward and pulled taut at the same time.

“I’m done,” he said, stumbling to his feet.

It was petulant and both of them knew it. Eddie, especially. He’d been having fun, and Waylon had to ruin it with some misguided thought that Eddie was going to go on a murdering spree now that he knew about the man’s other half.

“I’m not going to kill her, you know,” Eddie commented, voice soft. He didn’t think it needed to be said, but what did he know? “I’m not in the habit of killing everyone in my line of sight.”

For someone so drunk, Waylon looked incredibly uptight. Eddie had the sneaking suspicion that he’d sat on a stick and it lodged somewhere deep inside of him.

“It’s not—” Waylon was trying, he could tell that much. He was at least making the effort to articulate his feelings.

Eddie wasn’t an empathetic man. But he recalled the treatment he received in Pueblo, the facility he’d stayed at before his transfer to Mount Massive. Fifteen years of productive therapy, all the cognitive empathy exercises meant to expand his understanding of human connectivity.

He couldn’t feel Waylon’s struggle, but he could see it. Could map out the logic behind it.

“It’s not you,” Waylon continued, staring at his hands. “It’s the _other_ you. You’re uncontrollable. And I don’t— I don’t want that for her.”

Eddie twisted the cap back on the flask. Stood up. Stumbled, but caught himself.

“It won’t be a concern for long,” he said, looking down at Waylon. “Once we’re out of the woods, I’ll be out of your hair.”

He strode closer to the fire, and settled back down next to it, legs crossed, elbows pressed to his knees.

They would head towards civilization at first light. Split up. And from there, Eddie would figure out what to do with his freedom. What to do with his life.


End file.
